


You Can Imagine the Christmas Dinners

by ardenteurophile



Series: Xmas Dinners Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-03
Updated: 2010-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardenteurophile/pseuds/ardenteurophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes John along for Christmas dinner with Mycroft and Mummy (And "Anthea", too). Over the course of the evening, John realises that everyone in the room - apart from him - seems to think that he and Sherlock are a couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

__****

“Your mother lives here?!” John muttered incredulously as they walked up the long gravel drive to the house.  It was a bitterly cold night; he hugged his coat around himself, wishing that Sherlock had let him wear his favourite woolly jumper.  Apparently it wasn’t ‘appropriate’ for this type of social gathering; John thought he was beginning to see why.

Sherlock hummed in confirmation, casting a dispassionate eye over the veritable mansion that rose up in front of them, surrounded by sweeping lawns and poplar trees.

“Technically Mycroft’s, of course. He always was so... showy.”

“Showy?! Sherlock, there are bloody peacocks!” said John, spotting one picking its way across the lawn.

“Tacky.”

“I feel like I’m at Malfoy Manor or something.  Am I at Malfoy Manor?”

Sherlock turned slightly and raised an eyebrow at John, questioning.

“Let me guess. You’ve never read Harry Potter,” John sighed.  He wondered whether Sherlock had ever even heard of it.  He wondered whether Sherlock even knew what a wizard was.

“Is this one of those pop culture references you’re so fond of?  You know I have neither the time nor the inclination, John.”

“I don’t see why you can’t just catch up when you’re bored.  As in, every other week?  Instead of, oh I don’t know, shooting holes in the walls, and doing experiments on things that were supposed to be my lunch.”

“Pointless.”

“We’d do a damn sight better in the pub quiz if you would,” John grumbled, thinking back to the last disastrous time he’d dragged Sherlock down to their local for the Tuesday night quiz. 

They had reached the porch (ostentatious and overbearing, with odd marble plinths on either side of the door), and Sherlock reached up to ring the bell, turning to John with a strange look on his face.

“John, I have my areas of expertise, and you have yours; they are distinct but complementary.  It’s one of many reasons why our partnership is so valuable to me.”

John blinked, blind-sided as ever when Sherlock gave him one of his odd, roundabout compliments.

“Oh. Good, that’s...good.”

Sherlock smiled at him a little manically, and the door was flung open in front of them.

“Sherlock, daaaarling!” came the ringing greeting, which Sherlock winced a little at, and a woman dressed in purple and gold – Mummy Holmes, John presumed – descended upon his friend in a cloud of perfume and feathery boas.  John was reminded rather forcibly of the peacock he’d just seen.

“Merry Christmas, mother...” he heard, muffled from within Mummy Holmes’ shoulder.

The woman drew back suddenly and turned her eyes to John.  She was tall, with Sherlock’s elegant (if somewhat horsey) bone structure and heavy-lidded eyes.  Her hair had been dark, but was now more salt-and-pepper and piled on top of her head in an extravagant bun.

“And this must be your partner-”

“-friend-” John muttered hurriedly, more than used to making the correction these days.

“Companion,” Sherlock cut in smoothly, placing his hand on the small of John’s back to guide him into the house, “Mother, this is John Watson.”

“Aracelia Holmes,” she introduced herself, swopping down on John too and kissing his cheek.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, engulfed in a sudden floral fug, “Merry Christmas.”

“John’s a _doctor_ , mother,” said Sherlock, something in his voice that sounded strangely like pride.  John glanced at him, a little bemused.

“Erm, yes.  I am.”

“Oh, I know, dear, I’ve heard _all_ about you.  I’m so glad to meet you at last; do come in.”

  

  1. The house was toastily warm after the cold of the winter night outside, and actually very tastefully decorated for the season - though John could see that Sherlock disagreed, as he currently seemed to be staring murderously at a decorative bunch of holly and mistletoe.   
  



They were bundled into a large drawing room by Aracelia, who poured them both sherries and then disappeared off “to see how things are getting on in the kitchens, my dears”.  John wasn’t sure who was cooking, but he wouldn’t be surprised to discover that the house came complete with an entire array of “help”.  Did people even have help anymore?!

“Showy,” said Sherlock again, sniffing in disapproval towards an enormous Christmas tree that was covered in gold tresses and glass baubles.

“Now now, Sherlock, do behave,” came a voice from behind them, and John turned to see Mycroft Holmes gliding into the room.  “We don’t want a repeat of last year, now do we?”

John suppressed a giggle as he noted that Mycroft was wearing a red and green tie with reindeer on it.  Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically.

“Last year was entirely your fault, Mycroft, as you well know.”

“My fault!  _My_ fault?!  And I suppose the incident with the stuffing was _my_ fault too. Hello again, Doctor Watson.”

“John, please.  Hello Mycroft,” John said, smiling warmly and shaking hands with the man.  He felt that at least somebody ought to be civil and grown-up around here, and he couldn’t imagine it was going to be Sherlock or Mycroft.

“I’m sorry that there’s not more of us, John,” Mycroft went on, “We did used to have quite a large party at Christmas, you see, but Mummy hasn’t liked to have guests in recent years, not since Sherlock set fire to the-”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, downing his sherry and throwing himself into an armchair.

John raised his eyebrows and chuckled.  
“He set fire to something?  Let me guess, it was an experiment.”

“So he claims,” Mycroft said, leaning in and lowering his voice, “But I think he was just trying to avoid having to eat his sprouts.”

Sherlock pouted, crossing his legs angrily.

“I’ve declared a blanket ban on all experiments over the Christmas period,” John explained to Mycroft.  One of his more inspired ideas, he thought; Sherlock had asked whether he was expected to buy him a present (from anyone else, it would’ve seemed a little offensive; with Sherlock he was just surprised it’d crossed his mind at all) and he had asked instead for a little peace and quiet over the Christmas season.  So far it was going well, with only that one minor slip-up with the toenails.

“Really?” Mycroft said, looking intrigued, “And he acquiesced? You do surprise me.”

“It’s a _gift_ ,” huffed Sherlock from the corner, “At Christmas it is customary to exchange gifts with those you are close to.”

“It’s nice that you know the theory, Sherlock, you’ve never given a gift in your life,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock frowned.

“I’ve never had someone to give one to.”

John felt himself flushing suddenly, and cleared his throat, trying to look anywhere but at Sherlock.  He was glad that Aracelia chose that moment to swoop back into the room, carrying a tray of glasses.

“Darlings, dinner is about to be served, if you would follow me through.  Sherlock, do stop slouching about in that chair, it isn’t becoming.  Mycroft, could you fetch a few bottles of red from the cellar?  Not the ’67, if you please, it was an early Christmas present from the Adlers and I rather suspect that it’s poisoned.”

John blinked, unsure whether he’d heard that last correctly, until he reminded himself whose mother this was and decided he probably had.  Mycroft nodded and disappeared off down a hallway, leaving Sherlock and John to follow Aracelia into the dining room. 

John took a deep breath.

It was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

  
The dining room was as grand as the rest of the house, and similarly decked out in holly and colourful garlands and ribbons. On top of a somewhat imposing dining table sat an absolute Christmas feast; a turkey so big John couldn’t believe the thing had ever been able to walk, huge heaps of roast potatoes and pigs-in-blankets along with all the trimmings, and crackers laid end to end all along the table. He felt a little like he was Tiny Tim and he’d just wandered into a Dickens novel.

Then he realised that there was already someone seated at the table, and breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t to be the only non-family member present for dinner.

“Anthea?”

Mycroft’s PA looked up from the BlackBerry she was tapping away at, and smiled rather twistedly.

“Not today,” she told John.

He huffed in amusement, and took the seat that Aracelia was gesturing him towards.

“What is it today then?”

She seemed to consider for a moment, cocking her head to one side and gazing around at their surroundings.

“Perhaps Mary...?” she said, slowly.

“Oh, obvious,” said Sherlock, pulling his coat off and sitting down opposite John, “Obvious, dull. And I don’t like that name, anyway.”

Mycroft strode back in with his arms full of wine bottles, depositing them on the table and pulling out a chair for Aracelia to sit down in one smooth movement.

“How about Donna?” he said, teasingly, joining the conversation seamlessly, “Or Blitzen. Or Comet, or Cupid; whatever you will.”

His PA laughed, shaking her head.

“Holly,” she said decisively, picking up a sprig from the table as if to illustrate her point.

“Holly,” agreed John.

“Holly it is, then!” sing-songed Aracelia, gesturing to Mycroft to pour the wine, “So now we’re all acquainted. I must insist that phones go away for the duration of the evening, however; I am sure that the country can run itself for a few hours.”

Holly glanced at Mycroft somewhat doubtfully, but he nodded his assent and she reluctantly returned her BlackBerry to her pocket.

“That goes for you too, Sherlock,” Aracelia said a little sharply; her youngest son was tapping away at that hateful pink iPhone again, John saw. He’d wanted to throw it away after what had happened at the pool, but Sherlock insisted that it was useful to him to have an anonymous number to text from as well as his own, and that John was being unnecessarily sentimental in associating a phone with a bad memory. John shuddered at the thought, definitely of the opinion that he was in fact being necessarily sentimental.

Sherlock glowered and shoved the phone into his jacket.

“Thank you. Now, Sherlock, would you carve please?”

Mycroft froze in pouring the drinks, looking at his mother as though she had absolutely lost her mind.

“Mummy,” he muttered at her out of the side of his mouth, “Do you really think that’s a good idea? After what happened last time?”

Sherlock sighed in frustration.

“I can hear you, you know, Mycroft, I am sitting right here.”

“Well, perhaps it’s time to give him another chance,” said Aracelia, though John noted there was a slight tremor in her voice.

“It’s ok, mother,” said Sherlock, his voice dripping with ice, “I wouldn’t want to make Mycroft feel _on edge_. John can do it.”

Everyone at the table’s eyes shifted on to John.

“Would you do the honours?” asked Mycroft, looking almost pleading.

“Of course,” said John, smiling and picking up the carving knife, wondering what Sherlock had managed to do to the turkey last time that was so terrible. He decided he didn’t want to know.

“You cook for Sherlock a lot at home, don’t you?” said Aracelia conversationally. John shrugged, nodding his head vaguely.

“I suppose so. Yes. Well, he often forgets to eat, and I enjoy cooking, so...”

“We hear you’re a very good cook,” she continued, smiling beatifically, “I’m so glad that Sherlock finally has someone to take care of him. We were beginning to give up hope.”

John glanced between her and Sherlock slightly anxiously, wondering whether she was actually implying what he thought she was implying, or whether he was just so used to people implying that that he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“He can be a bit of a handful,” he agreed, slowly, dolling out turkey onto everyone’s plates.

“Only a very brave man would take on the job,” chuckled Mycroft.

John smiled worriedly and took his seat again, gesturing at the feast in front of them.

“Dinner looks delicious, Mrs Holmes,” he told her, and she smiled in recognition. Sherlock was still glowering, stabbing at his roast potatoes.

“I’ll have you know, Mycroft, that my relationship with John is actually far more equitable than you seem to be suggesting.”

John wasn’t sure that Sherlock’s referring to their relationship was really helpful, considering the circumstances. Still.

“In what way?” Mycroft asked.

“Well!” Sherlock said, seemingly casting around for an answer, “I bought milk the other day.”

John snorted into his glass of wine.

“Yes, and you left it in the living room and it went off before I’d realised it was there.”

Sherlock looked abashed for a moment, but rallied quickly.

“I tidied up last week!”

“Only so you could make enough room to drag in that dead sheep you wanted to examine.”

“Well....I take you out for dinner all the time!”

John grinned, conceding that particular point.

“That’s right, you do. And very kind of you it is too. Although, if you could see your way to helping out the proprietor of a thai restaurant sometime soon, it wouldn’t go amiss. I keep hankering after thai food.”

Sherlock stared at him intently, before nodding.

“You should’ve said.”

“I don’t usually need to, with you,” John pointed out.

“Of course.”

John wondered if Sherlock was going to go out and specifically ask every thai restaurant owner in London whether they needed any favours doing or problems solving. He wouldn’t put it past him.

Aracelia was smiling indulgently at them.

“Oh, listen to you two, bickering away. You’re just an old married couple, aren’t you!” she exclaimed.

“We’re not a-” began John, running on auto-pilot, only to be interrupted by Sherlock insisting, “We’re not _old_ , mother”.

John narrowed his eyes, glancing at the other occupants of the table. He was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion about this.

“So, Mrs Holmes. You say you’ve heard a lot about me. What exactly have you heard...?”

Aracelia’s eyebrows raised at this, at the same time as Sherlock’s head snapped up, something close to panic in his face. John met his eyes across the table, questioning slightly.

“Would-anyone-like-some-more-wine?”

Sherlock blurted suddenly, standing up out of his chair. He began haphazardly topping up everyone’s glasses, leaving a trail of red wine droplets across the table cloth in his enthusiasm. John stared at them, forcibly reminded of the path of blood drops that he and Sherlock had tracked through the snow a couple of weeks ago. _The Case of the Vanishing Knife_. He’d almost finished his blog post on it. He grinned at the memory of the look on Sherlock’s face when he’d suddenly chucked a snowball in it in the middle of a crime scene.

Mrs Holmes ignored her son’s odd behaviour.

“Well, that you’re a doctor, my dear, and you used to be in the army – very proper. And that you drink a lot of tea, he said. Yes, an awful lot of tea, apparently.”

John sagged in relief.

“And he plays you songs on his violin, which you like, and you go out to dinner often, or sometimes you stay in and you cook for him, and occasionally you offer to sacrifice your life for him,” added Mycroft, a little disapprovingly, “You shouldn’t do that, really, John. It only inflates his sense of self-worth.”

John winced. So did Sherlock, he noticed.

“Also,” continued Aracelia, “He asked me to learn to knit so that I could make you a new jumper. He does think you look just so darling in them.”

“Oh my god,” said John, staring wide-eyed across the table at Sherlock.

“Oh my god,” echoed Sherlock, pulling his fingers through his hair and avoiding John’s eyes.

“Mrs Holmes,” began John, “I’m sorry, but I have to tell you, I think you’ve got it wrong about Sherlock and me. We’re not... I mean, I don’t...”

Sherlock looked up suddenly and gave John a look so intense and pleading that he let the words die in his throat. He felt his breath hitch a little in his chest and swallowed, suspecting he would come to regret this in the future.

“I don’t really... think he likes my jumpers at all, he wouldn’t let me wear my very favourite one this evening. Ahaha,” he said, forcing a laugh that sounded awkward even in his own ears.

Sherlock gave him a look of pure gratitude.

“Ah, John, I am sorry, but I just couldn’t let you come to Mycroft’s estate without your very best suit on, however uncomfortable it is. I promise that once we get home we’ll get you straight out of those clothes.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow suggestively and John almost choked on a potato. Holly sniggered from the other side of the table.

“Now, now, boys,” cautioned Aracelia, though she didn’t actually sound annoyed; in fact, on the contrary, she sounded... proud? John shook his head slightly and concentrated on his dinner. Perhaps if he pretended none of this was happening it would just go away.

“So, Mycroft,” Sherlock coughed, clearly deciding a change in topic was in order, “How’s… the government?”

Mycroft regarded his younger brother shrewdly from beneath his eyelashes.

“You don’t need to pretend that you’re interested,” he said.

“I thought that was what family gatherings were for?” said Sherlock, all innocence. John snorted into his dinner; there was something about their sibling quarrelling that made him miss Harry, and he resolved to pop in and see her later in the week. He was sure she’d enjoy hearing how all of Sherlock’s family were now convinced they were an item, as well as all of his own.

“Very well. The government is in perfect health, despite what the papers would have you believe. Holly and I have been working very hard to ensure as much.”

He raised his glass in her direction and she smiled, blushing slightly.

“Working with a coalition’s been interesting,” Holly offered, “Of course, the Prime Minister was quite aware beforehand of who Mycroft was and his… position, but the new kid’s been a bit more trouble. Still, he’s learning.”

John snuck a glance at Sherlock, who was nodding politely but looking completely lost. He bit back a laugh.

“Something funny?” enquired Mycroft, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock scowled across at John, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“Aha, erm. Yes, it’s just,” John stuttered, before breaking out into a snigger, “Sherlock doesn’t actually know who the Prime Minister _is_ , let alone anything about the coalition.”

Holly stared at him in shock before bursting out laughing. John laughed with her; his laugh verging on hysterical, he realised, given the events of the night so far.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darlings, _of course_ Sherlock knows who the Prime Minister is!” exclaimed Aracelia, waving a hand airily, “Don’t you, my dear?”

Sherlock glared down at his dinner and skewered a piece of broccoli with his fork.

“Of course I do,” he muttered, sulkily.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“And who is it, then, pray?”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted from side-to-side, obviously trying to dredge up this piece of information from the filing cabinet of his brain. John almost collapsed into a fresh fit of giggles at the panic written all over his friend’s face.

“Erm,” said Sherlock, looking worriedly at Mycroft and obviously about to venture a guess, “….You?”

Mycroft threw back his head and guffawed. It seemed a ridiculously large sound from a man who was normally so composed, thought John.

“No, Sherlock, it’s not me,” he said eventually, when he’d stopped laughing. Sherlock frowned in consternation. “I am not the prime minister, no.”

“He’s close enough, though, truth be told,” murmured Holly conspiratorially, leaning in towards John.

“And what does that make you…?” he wondered out loud.

“Ah,” she smirked, “Behind every great man is a great woman. And her BlackBerry.”

John chuckled appreciatively, then realised Sherlock was watching their conversation intently with a strangely fierce look on his face. Suddenly, he reached out and took hold of John’s hand possessively across the table. John spluttered, meeting his eyes with alarm, but Sherlock merely smiled calmly and gave his hand a small squeeze.

“So I don’t know who the prime minister is,” he shrugged at Mycroft, “It is of no consequence; it’s the work that matters. Everything else is just transport.”

Mycroft quirked a brow.

“Is it _only_ the work that matters, then?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked towards John and back again.

“I’m not adverse to certain extra-curricular activities every now and again.”

John swallowed dryly. He had the creeping feeling that this situation was getting completely out of his control.

Aracelia rose suddenly, putting her hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I could use your help in the kitchens to prepare the dessert, Mycroft” she said, “And then we’ll do crackers and gifts.”

Mycroft nodded and they both sailed out of the room, which was suddenly full of servants who seemed to have been summoned from nowhere to help tidy away the plates. John hadn’t been wrong about the help, then, he thought.

Holly pulled out her BlackBerry immediately as Aracelia had disappeared and began tapping away on it, frantically. There was silence for a moment, John glaring at Sherlock, Sherlock gazing back a little – guiltily?

Holly swore suddenly at some mysterious email, and stood up, excusing herself and dashing out of the room with the phone clamped to her ear. Finally left alone in the room, John ripped his hand out of Sherlock’s and exploded.

“Sherlock, what the _hell_ is going on?! Have you… did you tell your family that we’re an _item_?!”

“No,” Sherlock muttered, annoyed, “Of course not.”

John flailed his arms a little, utterly bewildered.

“Then what-”

“I… just didn’t correct them when they assumed as much,” Sherlock admitted, “It didn’t seem important at first, and then…”

“And then?! And then what, Sherlock?!”

“They seemed so proud of me for finally…” Sherlock trailed off, staring down at his placemat, “I didn’t like to tell them the truth.”

John let out a breath, unable to maintain his anger when Sherlock was looking so lost.

“I see.”

Sherlock was avoiding his eyes, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt.

“You might have warned me,” John said finally.

Sherlock looked back up at him, sensing himself forgiven, then broke into a sudden and wicked smile that made John’s breath catch in his throat. Only out of concern for what it might mean, of course, he told himself; when Sherlock smiled like that, nothing good ever followed.

“Besides, we’re basically a couple anyway,” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

“No we’re n– Sherlock! How are we basically a couple?!”

John tried hard not to notice how much of a high-pitched squawk his voice was becoming.

“We engage in many of the same behaviours that I’ve observed in other, legitimate couples,” said Sherlock, in much the same tone he used when explaining an apparently obvious crime to Lestrade, “We spend the vast amount of our time together, to the exclusion of all others. We have a tacit understanding of each other without having to use words; we’re close, then, and have spent enough time studying each other to be able to read one another quite easily. I’m not easily read, so you must have spent an inordinate amount of time and effort on your study. You, on the other hand, are simple enough to read and therefore to dismiss, and yet I find myself strangely unable to do so.”

John stared at him, feeling himself flush, a creeping sense of horror and – something else? – coming over him. Sherlock continued, apparently not even close to finished.

“Food, then, what about food? We go out to dinner often, something I am quite aware that couples seem to enjoy doing, the payment for which is provided by me. A traditional male role, then; whereas when we eat at the house you prefer to cook my dinner, ergo you are my wife. Personally I eschew such defined gender roles, but the evidence is there. We also have shared financial obligations, though of course I am the main breadwinner.”

John opened his mouth to protest.

“Finally, John, I have observed that your heart-rate is slightly raised whenever I am close to you; more so than simply from the thrill of whatever adventure we are currently in the midst of; often even if we are engaged in something as humdrum as doing the supermarket shopping; also, that your pupils are often dilated around me, much as they are right now. These traits all lead to the conclusion that you feel some attraction to me above and beyond simple friendship”.

John growled.

“Sherlock, there is nothing at all that’s _simple_ about our friendship.”

“Furthermore, I have catalogued similar symptoms in myself which I find hard to explain in any other way; for example, my heartbeat is currently quite erratic and my palms,” he winced a little here, “are quite horribly clammy.”

John blinked at him, now completely thrown.

“You’re… attracted to me?” he asked, slowly.

“You’re attracted to me,” Sherlock stated.

“I… Sherlock-”

The doors to the room were flung open suddenly and Aracelia and Mycroft re-entered, laden down with trays of Christmas pudding and mince pies.

“Sorry to keep you boys waiting!” trilled Aracelia, “Wherever has Holly got to?”

John tore his gaze from Sherlock’s, wondering if his expression was as wild-eyed as he felt.

“She just popped out for a moment,” he explained, leaping to his feet, “I’ll go and find her.”

He couldn’t get out of that room fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


	3. Chapter 3

John burst out through the large front doors of the house and into the freezing air, sucking great lungfuls of it in.  Holly was perched on one of the marble plinth things beside the door, BlackBerry in one hand and a fag in the other.  She looked up at his sudden arrival.

“Oh my god.  Oh my god,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair and collapsing against the wall beside her.

“Mycroft and Sherlock’s bickering getting too much for you?” she smirked.

“No, no,” he explained, “Sherlock’s just been treating me to some deductions of the... rather more personal kind.”

“Ah.”

She proffered the box of cigarettes, but he waved her away, although he had to admit he was more than a little tempted despite not having smoked in years.  He knew Sherlock was doing well at quitting, though, and he didn’t want to make things harder by coming back in stinking of-

-Jesus, at what point had he started making all of his decisions based upon his idiot flatmate?!

He gritted his teeth together.

“Holly,” he said suddenly, “How would you, erm.  I mean.  Would you like to go for a drink with me sometime?  Just us.”

She turned to him and regarded him with scrutiny, before treating him to one of the slightly pitying smiles she was so adept at.

“What about Sherlock?”

“Sherlock and I aren’t together!” John cried, throwing his hands in the air in despair.

Holly rolled her eyes.

“John.  Of course you’re together.”

“No, we aren’t, we really, really aren’t.  He’s just been letting Mycroft and their mother believe that we’re a couple, for whatever harebrained reason - don’t ask me what goes on it that man’s mind, honestly - but we are not going out.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t say you were going out,” Holly replied easily.

“And even if we – wait,” John blinked, “Did you say you _don’t_ think we’re going out?”

“No, you aren’t going out.”

“Oh thank God,” John said, sagging against the wall.

“Yet,” she added, earning a scowl from John.

“Shut up.”

“Mycroft and ‘Mummy’ think you are, though,” she said, the latter in a fair impression of Mycroft’s silken drawl, “You’d think they’d realise, to be honest, it’s not as though they’re exactly unobservant.”

John gave a dry chuckle.

“But where Sherlock’s concerned, I think they’ve let themselves get a bit blinded by excitement that he’s actually let someone get close to him.  It hasn’t really happened before.  Well, once, I suppose, at college.  Not like this.”

John bit his lip, warring emotions meeting in his chest, along with a vague stab of something he thought could possibly be identified as jealousy.  He wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to earn the affections of this infuriatingly staggering man – or should that perhaps be staggeringly infuriating, he wondered.  Emotional confusion seemed to be becoming par for the course with Sherlock.  And just general confusion, really.

“And of course, there’s the fact that you’re both obviously totally into each other,” continued Holly.

“I- what – no, _no_ , I don’t – we’re not a bloody couple!”

She smirked, going back to tapping at her phone.

“Come out with me,” said John, wheeling around on her and gazing into her face intently, “Go on.  I’m a nice guy, aside from the crazy housemate.  You’re a nice girl, aside from the crazy boss.  It’s perfect.  We can trade stories!”

Holly raised one eyebrow, knowingly.

“You want to go on a date with me... and spend it talking about Sherlock Holmes?”

“No, I-,” John shook his head, feeling muddled, “That’s not what I meant.”

“John,” she said, sliding her phone into her pocket and taking his hands, “Suppose I did go out with you – which I’m not going to, by the way, because I’m really more concerned with my career and I don’t have time to date.  Relationships are a lot of effort for very little reward.”

 “It almost sounds like you should be the one going out with Sherlock,” grinned John, then added carefully, “...not that anyone’s going out with Sherlock.”

“But suppose I did.  Suppose we went to the pub, or perhaps for dinner, or even to the theatre.  Suppose we had a nice time.”

“Yes? Suppose we did?”

“And then suppose you got a text in the middle of the date from Sherlock Holmes asking you to go wheeling off at a moment’s notice.  Where would you want to be?”

John frowned.

“Well, he could be in danger.  Is he in danger? Hypothetically, I mean.”

“He isn’t in danger, no.  Hypothetically.  But that isn’t the point, John.  I said, where would you _want_ to be.”

John stared at her, conflicting expressions flitting across his face.  They stayed like that for a long moment, a faint smile on Holly’s lips as she waited for John’s thoughts to reach their inevitable conclusion.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he said eventually, dropping his head into his hands.

“We’re a fucking couple.”

Holly patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“I know.”

She stood up from her seat on the plinth, taking one last glance at her BlackBerry before pushing at the front door.

“We’d better go back in,” she told John gently.

 “Can’t we just stay out here?” John wailed, “Please?”

 “They’ll be onto dessert now.  He’ll know we’ve been talking about him, you know.”

John nodded, wearily.

“And you don’t want to disappoint Mummy.”

Shaking his head, John let himself be led meekly back inside the house.  He wasn’t sure it was Mummy that he was worried about disappointing.


	4. Chapter 4

They re-entered the dining room to the sounds of laughter.  Mycroft and Aracelia Holmes were pulling a cracker across the table, both straining to get purchase on it, Aracelia shrieking and giggling at Mycroft.   

Sherlock was wearing a purple paper crown, John noted with amusement, which had slipped down lopsidedly over one of his eyes.  He felt his heart swell with the strange affection he’d come to associate with this ridiculous man, and for a moment, looking round at the festive scene after coming in from the cold of the outdoors, he could feel only the warm glow of being with family at Christmas. 

That dissipated quickly though as everyone’s eyes turned to them as they walked back into the room, Mycroft raising an eyebrow at Holly.  John risked a cautious look at Sherlock, who stared back at him wide-eyed, searching his face for news of his fate.  Oh, _hell_.  His gaze flitted surreptitiously between him and Holly; evidently reading their entire conversation in one glance, and then his expression cleared. 

“Saved you a cracker, John,” he said, holding one out towards him casually.   

John paused, feeling like accepting it somehow had greater relevance than the cracker itself.  Sherlock was watching him carefully, his brow slightly furrowed. 

He reached out cautiously and took a hold of the other end. 

“Thanks.” 

The resulting _crack_ was as anti-climactic as ever, John thought mildly.  He didn’t really see the point in crackers.  He picked up his winnings from the table, taking his place back in his chair. 

“A miniature sewing kit,” he said, “Very useful.” 

Sherlock sniggered. 

“Now you can darn my socks,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.  John remembered their earlier conversation and scowled at him, resolving to do absolutely no housework for the rest of the month.  He might have admitted to himself that he and Sherlock might sort of possibly be a couple, or at least possibly sort of almost a couple, but there was no way he was his _wife._  

“There must be some way of ensuring you always get the largest part of the cracker anyway, I expect you’ve done some sort of study on it,” he said, “You let me win!” 

“Of course. But then,” said Sherlock, regarding him steadily, “I’ve already got my prize”. 

John swallowed, feeling heat rising up the back of his neck.  He could see Holly grinning smugly out of the corner of his eye. 

“…Oh yes?” he managed, his voice coming out several notches higher than it should have, “And what’s that?” 

Sherlock grinned wickedly, then pulled something out of his jacket pocket. 

“It’s a tiny magnifying glass!” 

He waved it in his direction to demonstrate. 

“Very apt, don’t you think, John?  Not up to the usual standards of my equipment of course, but it’s an amusing ornament.  This is more Anderson’s style, I should think.” 

John shook his head, helplessly.  He was used to experiencing a certain degree of intellectual whiplash when he was around Sherlock, but adding “feelings” into the mix… well, that would just be ridiculous.  And he would be ridiculous to do so.  And he was ridiculous for having already done so. 

He helped himself to another large glass of wine, topping up everyone else’s at the same time.  Mycroft was in the middle of telling Aracelia some hilarious anecdote about the corridors of power, and John turned his attention back to the table at large, trying resolutely to ignore the warmth of Sherlock’s thigh against his own. 

“…and it turned out that the banana was just part of his lunch!” finished Mycroft, guffawing loudly.   

John had missed the punch-line and most of the story, but he laughed along anyway, trying desperately to pretend that it was perfectly normal to be having Christmas dinner with your flat-mate’s family whilst at the same time playing along that you were going out with said flat-mate, who you’d only just realised you maybe _actually_ ought to be going out with, but couldn’t exactly tell said flat-mate that perhaps you ought to be doing that when everyone else in the room thought you already _were_.

And on top of that, your flat-mate probably knew all of that and was five steps ahead of you already…

Either that or (worse) he’d already completely forgotten everything they’d discussed earlier and moved on to occupy his brain with something else utterly unfathomable and ridiculous. 

“Ridiculous,” muttered John, earning himself a sharp look from Sherlock. 

“Isn’t it!” chortled Mycroft, evidently thinking he was referring to his banana anecdote, “Mince pies, anyone?” 

He stood up and began handing them around with a flourish. 

“Ah, darling, I do love hearing about your work,” Aracelia said, sipping at her wine, “I wish you would tell us more about yours, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock frowned. 

“You never approved of my work, mother.” 

“Well,” she said, considering, “Not as such.  But if it’s important to you… You never really approved of my dabblings in interior design, either.”

Sherlock made a dismissive sound. 

“Too much mauve.”

Aracelia rolled her eyes in a way that implied Sherlock had absolutely no taste.  Given that Sherlock’s idea of decorating was daubing yellow paint on the walls and then shooting at it, John was somewhat inclined to agree with her there.

“Well, I’m sure the good doctor will regale us with tales of some of your adventures,” she said, raising her eyebrows at John.  He glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged as if to say he wasn’t bothered either way.

“Of course,” he nodded.

“Over mince pies and sherry in the drawing room, then, I think,” Aracelia went on, suddenly swooping to her feet and exiting the room with a swirl of her dress.  Dramatic exits must run in the family, John thought.

They all stood and trailed their way along the hall after Aracelia, Sherlock making vague grumbling noises under his breath.  Whilst they’d been at dinner, candles had been lit around the drawing room along with a crackling fire in the grate, and the room was full of a warm flickering glow.  However much Sherlock might scoff, thought John, Aracelia clearly had quite an eye for these things; it felt like walking into a perfect postcard of a Victorian Christmas.

“So, John,” said Aracelia once everyone was settled and munching happily at mince pies, “Do tell us a little of your adventures with my youngest.”

John cast his mind around for a suitable story.

“Hmm, I suppose since it’s seasonal, and I haven’t written it up on my blog yet, I could tell you about the Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle...”

He was interrupted by a scoffing sound from Sherlock, who was perched next to him on the (very grand, not particularly comfortable) sofa.

“’The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle’?!” he said incredulously, “Is that what you’re calling it?  I do wish you would stop giving you blog posts these fantastical names, John.”

“I’ll stop giving them fantastical names when you stop behaving like something out of a bloody novel,” John retorted.  Sherlock glared at him.

“Go on, John,” prompted Aracelia.

“Well.  I came downstairs one morning a few of weeks ago; it was that very icy week when half the buses had been cancelled.  Sherlock was sitting on the sofa in his dressing gown, the purple one I think-”

“Of what relevance to the case is it what colour my dressing gown was?” Sherlock interrupted.  John shrugged.

“None at all.  I’m just telling it how I remember it-”

“Why do you remember what colour my dressing gown was, anyway?” he demanded, “You can barely remember where you’ve left your keys.  Despite the fact that they are always either in your pocket, on the coffee table or next to the kettle.  How you fail to realise this every single time is absolutely beyond me.”

“So I’m not allowed to notice the colour of your dressing gown, but you’re allowed to notice all of my key-depositing habits?!” John said, aware that his voice was getting higher with exasperation. 

“It’s my _job_ ,” said Sherlock, emphasising the last word.

“It is _not_ your job!  Not on me!”

“Well then it’s my _hobby._ ”

“Well then I noticed it because I hadn’t seen you wear it before and I thought it looked-”

John suddenly became uncomfortably aware that everyone in the room was watching them intently.

“...nice,” he finished lamely.  To his intense surprise, Sherlock blushed and looked away from him.  He cleared his throat.

“Anyway.  As I was saying.  Sherlock was sitting on the sofa.  I don’t know what he was wearing, I have no idea.  I didn’t notice.”

Holly sniggered appreciatively. 

“And he was staring at a really vile woolly hat, looked like it’d been trodden on or dragged through the gutter or something, which had apparently been brought to him that morning...”

An hour and a half and several sherries later, John had finished his tale (which would have gone much quicker if not for Sherlock’s interruptions), and the Holmes brothers had got into an argument over the relative merits of extendible vs. non-extendible umbrellas.  Mycroft seemed to be arguing for the classic on the basis of style, whereas Sherlock held that the extendible was far more portable and practical.

Sherlock was also migrating steadily towards John’s side of the sofa, John had not failed to notice (although he was pretending not to).  He was wondering vaguely about perhaps taking Sherlock’s hand.  He was his boyfriend, after all.  Well, not his actual boyfriend.  But he was definitely pretending to be his boyfriend.  Or- well, whatever exactly was going on here.  He ought to let Sherlock know somehow that he was ok with playing along and pretending they were together, for now at least.  His head was beginning to swim a little, the effects of the booze kicking in.  Sherlock had just grabbed his at the table earlier, so easily, why was it so easy for him when it wasn’t for him?

“What do you think, John?”

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock’s left hand, which he’d been staring at for the last ten minutes.  Mycroft seemed to be talking to him.

“Sorry, about what?” he asked.

“Extendible or classic,” snapped Sherlock, evidently annoyed that John hadn’t been following his frankly riveting conversation about umbrellas.

John thought for a moment, then started giggling hysterically.

“I think it’s not the size of the brolly that counts,” he said, “It’s how you use it.”

Sherlock stared at him as though he’d grown an extra head, whereupon Mycroft threw back his head and guffawed.  He went on and on, his laugh ringing around the drawing room, until eventually he calmed himself down and wiped at his eyes.

“Doctor John Watson,” he said, “You can stay, I think.  I rather like you.”

“As do I,” said Aracelia, who had somehow managed to remain serene and above-it-all during the umbrella argument, “On which note, shall we exchange presents now? It’s getting late.”


	5. Chapter 5

Aracelia turned and dragged a small pile of presents from under the tree. John had a sudden panic; he’d brought his present for Sherlock – it was in a carrier bag by the door – but was he supposed to have brought presents for anyone else? He hadn’t even thought about it: after all, he’d never met Aracelia before, he didn’t even know Holly’s real name and he certainly wouldn’t have called Mycroft a friend - more someone who occasionally kidnapped him. They didn’t seem like the type of acquaintances one would normally buy presents for. On the other hand, a lot of things weren’t normal about his life these days.

Holly was ripping open a small, beautifully wrapped parcel given to her by Mycroft with an expression of rapt excitement, looking nothing like the poised career-woman John was used to seeing. Finally she got it open and out fell… another BlackBerry.

“The latest model,” purred Mycroft. Holly shrieked and threw her arms around him.

“How did you know!”

“It’s customized. Quite unique to you, my dear, I think you’ll find it quite… useful. It can be used to take over the steering on any car, to control any electrical device within a 10 metre vicinity and to track the whereabouts of any other phone that’s turned on – along with a host of other, well, rather more _sinister_ features.”

Holly made a small whimpering noise, stroking at her new toy.

“If there’s anything else you require as an add-on, just let me know and I’ll get Q to sort it out straight away,” Mycroft added.

John snorted.

“Q? Seriously?”

“Quentin Bleakley. The man in charge of our tech. I call him Q, he calls me M… we do love our little jokes,” explained Mycroft, chuckling. John grinned. Before tonight, he wouldn’t have suspected that Mycroft knew what a joke was, but he was rapidly proving himself to have quite a sense of humour.

“James Bond?” Sherlock drawled, “John forced me to watch them all. Utter sensationalist twaddle, I can’t think why I let him.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Well, we’re always doing the things that you want to do.”

“Like what.”

“Like measuring the growth of fingernails on corpses. Like injecting melons with various toxins. Like watching episodes of Jeremy Kyle – and the latter of those is the worst evil, by the way.”

Sherlock scoffed, but said nothing. John took that to mean he’d won that particular round.

Aracelia was unfolding an intricately embroidered silk scarf from the wrapping paper on her knee, obviously also courtesy of Mycroft. She shook it out with pleasure and wrapped it around her neck. It probably cost more than anything John owned, he reflected.

“Oh darling, it’s gorgeous,” she said, “You do have impeccable taste in clothing.”

“Speaking of which,” said Mycroft, “Your new wardrobe will be awaiting you in Baker Street when you return, Sherlock. I thought about going for a less flamboyant cut for your Spring coat, in the name of practicality, but I do know how you love to swoop about in it looking dramatic.”

Suddenly the contrast between Sherlock’s austere lifestyle and his ridiculously well-cut designer clothing made perfect sense.

“Say thank you, dear,” prompted Aracelia.

“’nks,” Sherlock muttered, glaring at the floor.

“And did you get anything for anyone this year?” she asked lightly, her voice laced with amusement.

“John,” he said, still staring at the floor. John nodded, smiling.

“Yes, he’s promised to not do any experiments in the flat over the Christmas period. I can’t keep him out of 221c, of course, but at least the explosions are a bit more muffled from right down there.”

“No, I got you something… else, too,” he said, looking a little embarrassed and reaching over to tweak something out of his coat pocket, which he’d flung haphazardly over the back of one of the chairs. He shoved it into John’s hands. It was wrapped up in a piece of newspaper.

“Nice wrapping paper,” commented Mycroft mildly.

“Newspaper is a perfectly adequate material to wrap things in,” Sherlock snapped.

John opened the parcel cautiously, all too aware that the things that Sherlock thought might make a good present probably weren’t things most sane people would even want to touch. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, really. Possibly someone’s earlobe.

It was a black moleskine notebook, custom-made with the initials J.H.W embossed on the cover. John traced the letters with his thumb.

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asked eagerly, a flash of anxiety in his eyes that John wasn’t sure anyone else would have caught.

“I love it, Sherlock,” he said, grinning widely.

“It’s for case-notes,” Sherlock explained, “And anything else you want to write about, really. Now you won’t have to write in that dreadful blog anymore. The world will be spared.”

John laughed.

“But no one will be able to read it, then. That’s sort of the point of a blog, Sherlock.”

“I can read it,” he said softly. John looked up at him, questioning, but he didn’t say anything further.

“I have something for you, too,” he said, jumping to his feet and fetching the carrier bag from the other side of the room, “It’s not much, I… you’re quite difficult to buy for.”

“I have no requirement of presents,” Sherlock said, nevertheless taking the parcel that John handed to him.

“Yes, exactly, yes. That’s why you’re difficult to buy for.”

Sherlock tore open the wrapping paper immediately and rolled his eyes when he uncovered a large book on the constellations of the universe.

“It has a pull-out star chart,” said John, trying to keep a straight face.

“Why would I need a pull-out star chart,” Sherlock said, exasperated.

“Because it’s important. I think it has pop-ups, too, actually. Just to make it a bit more exciting for you. Anyway, you said you could appreciate the stars.”

“I can appreciate them. But they don’t _matter_ ,” Sherlock protested, echoing his words the last time they had had this conversation. And the time before that. And the time before that.

“Well,” said John, firmly, “Sometimes the things that we appreciate start to matter to us.”

Sherlock looked up, startled, and started at him intently. John shifted uncomfortably, but held his gaze without blinking. He could almost see the gears working in his head.

“Yes, I suppose they do,” Sherlock murmured, and abruptly flipped the book open on his lap, his eyes flitting across the pages with that strange, detached concentration that John had become so accustomed to.

“If I’d realised that we were using Christmas as an excuse to teach Sherlock some common knowledge, I’d have bought him a copy of _Politics for Dummies_ ,” commented Mycroft drily.

“That’s very thoughtful, John,” said Aracelia, kindly, obviously trying to make up for the fact that Sherlock hadn’t said thank you, though John didn’t particularly mind; he was quite used to it. Aracelia and Holly were cooing over the chilli chocolates that Aracelia had bought for Holly, which they seemed to have decided it was a good idea to open right now.

“We should be heading off,” Sherlock announced suddenly, shutting the book.

“Oh, no, you don’t, boys, you’re staying right here tonight. And you can’t ask me to learn to knit and then not stick around to see the fruits of my labour.”

Sherlock paled, staring at his mother, who was pulling lumpy packages from beneath the tree.

“Oh, you didn’t,” he breathed. John noticed that Mycroft, too, was looking rather perturbed as Aracelia dolled out the parcels to them. He felt awkward that he hadn’t got her anything; would have to find out when her birthday was, he supposed, and send her a bottle of wine or something. Preferably un-poisoned.

“Jumpers for my boys, m’jumper boys!” she cried gaily, as they opened their gifts. John stared down at the heap of grey and blue wool he had unwrapped, which was misshapen and baggy but still, clearly, a jumper. It looked like she’d even attempted cable-knit.

“That is…. _extraordinary_ ,” he declared, pulling it on over his head, “I love a good jumper.” It was much too big, but John always thought that was the mark of a proper jumper for the winter. He beamed at Aracelia, who looked ecstatic that he appreciated her hard work.

A strangled cry came from his right hand side.

“Mauve?!”

Sherlock was holding up a muddy-purplish jumper with a large red ‘S’ emblazoned on the front of it.  
“You look nice in mauve, dear. Now put it on, let me see if it fits.”

“Yes, go on, Sherlock,” came Mycroft’s voice, slightly muffled as he was already struggling into an orange number with a brown ‘M’ on the front of it. When his head popped out of the top, John struggled to hold back giggles at the sight of Mycroft Holmes, Governmental Manipulator Extraordinaire (probably not his official title, he reflected), wearing a bright orange fuzzy jumper.

The sight of Sherlock’s aghast expression after he had pulled his own jumper didn’t help things; it hung almost down to his knees and what with that and his hair all ruffled up, he looked exactly like a petulant little child. John tried to imagine what Lestrade and his team would say if they could see the great Sherlock Holmes now and felt hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest.

He was doing a good job of not laughing until he caught Holly’s eye, who was already helpless with silent laughter, tears streaming down her face, and then couldn’t keep it in any longer; he burst out into giggles, which set Aracelia and Mycroft off too. They laughed until their sides ached, until even Sherlock had to join in with the distinctive chuckle that always looked as though half of his face was startled about what the noise coming from the other half was.

Eventually they stopped giggling – although not before Aracelia had forced them to pose in their jumpers for several photographs – and collapsed back onto the sofa.

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring you anything,” said John apologetically to Mrs Holmes.

“Oh, it’s quite alright. Besides, I’m just glad that Sherlock’s got someone to look after him now, that’s enough of a present to last the whole year,” she smiled. Sherlock pouted and tucked his knees up inside his jumper.

“Well,” said John, “He does take care of me too, you know.”

“Does he?” said Mycroft, leaning forwards in his chair and steepling his fingers in a way that was immediately reminiscent of his younger brother, “Interesting…do go on.”

“Erm. Well, he made me a cup of tea once.”

Mycroft snorted.

“If I fall asleep on the sofa then he normally covers me up with his coat,” John continued, thinking out loud, “He always knows I need quiet when I’m studying a medical journal. Somehow he can tell when I’m having a nightmare and he starts playing his violin to calm me down.”

Sherlock glanced at him shrewdly.

“I didn’t know you’d noticed that.”

John nodded vaguely, still running through the hundreds of tiny ways that Sherlock showed his regard for him. He’d never really thought about it before; how he made it obvious that he cared for him, without being overt about it like most people would. It gave him a strange warm feeling in his chest.

“When he orders Chinese he always knows that I want half rice, half noodles. He’s learnt to keep body parts in a separate drawer of the freezer to the food, which is a vast improvement. Obviously, he saves my life occasionally.”

More than occasionally, actually, he thought. That never would have been necessary before, in his past life of greyscale and mediocrity. He looked at his friend; the strange, slate-grey eyes, the curiously angled cheekbones, the incessant drama of his simply existing, and wasn’t sure how he hadn’t realised it earlier.

“I think he’s probably saved my life in more than one way, in fact,” he said quietly.

Sherlock turned towards him sharply, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he searched John’s face, clearly running through all the possible meanings behind his words. For once he was seemingly without a pithy comeback. For a moment, John wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed.

Then he reached over and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s, as casually as though he’d done it a thousand times, and was treated to a shy smile in return.

“N’AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” squealed Holly at them, obviously under the influence of slightly too much sherry. John tried to glare at her, but couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face.

“I think I had better be getting Holly home, Mummy,” said Mycroft, looking at his PA worriedly, “She’ll start drunk-tweeting in a minute, and who knows what state secrets she might give away.”

Holly stuck out her tongue at him.

“Oh, nonsense, Mycroft,” Aracelia cried, “We have a perfectly good bed for her here. She can go in the Blue Room, I think; I always find it quite the most calming to awake to with a hangover. And you simply cannot leave me in this great sprawling house to go back to your London apartment this evening, not at Christmas!”

Mycroft sighed.

“I suppose it is only fitting that I take my place as head of the household on occasion; very well.”

“And you’ll stay, Sherlock?” his mother asked him, “I’ve set aside a room for you and John, if you’ll just come and help me prepare the bed…”

John gulped. Obviously Mrs Holmes would not have thought to put him and Sherlock in separate rooms. Things seemed to be moving rather quickly, all of a sudden. 

“If it’s okay with John…” Sherlock said, looking at him uncertainly. John nodded slowly, trying (probably unsuccessfully) to hide the panic in his eyes.

“Yes, that would be… yes,” he muttered, feeling all the blood rush to his face. Well, mostly to his face.  He felt a low groan rise in the back of his throat, though from desire or despair he wasn't sure; it was hard to tell where the line between the two was with Sherlock.  

“Excellent. That would be most satisfactory, mother,” said Sherlock, grinning a little predatorily. It was a look John recognised well from when they were running through the streets of London, closing in on the criminal of the week; the realisation of this fact did little to assuage his anxiety.

Aracelia rose and Sherlock followed her out of the room, still wearing that ridiculous jumper and looking for all the world like a little boy trailing after his mother. Which, John supposed, he was. He watched them go, trying to think about anything but the fact that he was about to share a bed with his flat mate. Colleague. Best friend. Whatever Sherlock was.

There was slow applause behind him, and he turned to see Mycroft clapping his hands laconically.

“Bravo, John, oh, very good,” he said, “I almost believe you myself. Mummy’s certainly fooled. Are you actually going to share a bed with him? I confess myself most impressed.”

John’s mouth dropped open.

“Mycroft, what…?”

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh, you didn’t think I actually thought you were a couple too, did you? Give me some credit. I have had you under surveillance for the past nine months, I think I would have noticed. It’s kind of you to go along with it tonight for Sherlock’s benefit.”

John ran his hand through his hair helplessly, looking towards Holly for assistance. Unfortunately, she had fallen asleep and was drooling against a cushion.

“So, you… you don’t think that we’re a couple?” he asked, feeling utterly confused now. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Of course not, John.”

John wasn’t sure whether he was going to scream or to burst out laughing. After spending the entire evening pretending to be with Sherlock because everyone thought that they were together, it seemed that barely anyone _actually_ thought that – not Holly, not Mycroft. He wondered whether Aracelia even thought so, or if she was just playing along too. Was _everyone_ just playing along? Was Sherlock? Was he?!

“You’re good for him, though,” Mycroft went on, “It’s nice for him to have a little friend to play with. And he did seem so proud when he told us he’d finally found a ‘boyfriend’. It sounds like you’ve even taught him a spot of _altruism_ , which is rather exciting.”

John was still opening and shutting his mouth like a fish, no idea what to say. Mycroft was watching him curiously.

“Sorry, sorry,” he stuttered finally, “I’ve just found out that I’m living in a fiction.”

Mycroft laughed.

“His choice of gift for you was quite interesting, I thought. Most telling,” he went on.

“In what way?” John asked. Leave it to a Holmes to deduce things from a Christmas present.

“Possessive,” said Mycroft, giving John a pointed look, “Sherlock has never liked to share his toys.”

“What do you mean?”

“He already monopolises both your time and your attention. This way, if he has anything to do with it, you won’t even be writing in your blog anymore. Your thoughts will be for him and him alone.”

John reflected on that for a moment, imagining what things he would write to Sherlock if he knew only Sherlock was ever going to read it. He felt himself blushing at little.

“Perhaps some of them should be,” he said finally. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, as though waiting for John to continue.

“Excuse me, Mycroft,” he said, getting to his feet, “I think I should go and find my boyfriend. Goodnight.”

And he sauntered off down the hall, grinning at the stunned silence he’d left behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

He wandered vaguely in the direction which Sherlock and Mrs Holmes had gone, taking the first staircase upstairs that he found but with no real idea of where he was heading. Luckily, it wasn’t long before he heard the sound of their voices from a room at the end of a corridor. He was striding towards it when Sherlock’s words stopped him in his tracks.

“…very expressive eyes, which I find interesting, you can read his every thought on his face, which I ought to find tedious of course, oh, tedious, dull, dull, but I don’t, mother, why is that? I confess myself at a loss, at first glance he is so pedestrian, and yet-”

John pressed himself up against the wall, hoping they hadn’t heard his footsteps. He was sure Sherlock was talking about him; the words were insulting, really, but he couldn’t concentrate on that; could only concentrate on Sherlock’s wild mutter and the sudden tingling warmth all over his body.

“-and yet he is a good man, and loyal in a way I cannot quite comprehend… but there’s a certain contrasting darkness within him, a desire for danger, for destruction. That must be what attracts him to me, then, of course, like a moth to a flame. I do burn brighter than most. But what, in this scenario, does the flame desire of the moth? Is it simply to keep it warm, to light its way? Or is it consumption, devourment, ruin? Mother, I cannot let myself ruin him, I simply cannot.”

“Perhaps you credit yourself with too much power, Sherlock,” came the patient voice of Aracelia, “Who even says that you could ruin him? Who says it wouldn’t be the other way around?”

There was silence for a moment.

“He, ruin me?” Sherlock said, incredulously, “Impossible.”

“And yet, could you go back to solitude now that you’ve seen that there’s an alternative?”

John could hear pacing within the room, and a patting noise that sounded like someone plumping a pillow.

“I could not,” murmured Sherlock, “But that’s not why it’s impossible. He could not ruin me because he is too good ever to do so. I do not believe he would do so.”

“Well,” Aracelia said, a little sceptically, “Love is blind, Sherlock.”

“And I am not.”

There was silence for a few moments, and John could hear them shaking out a quilt. He felt guilty for eavesdropping on them, but couldn’t bring himself to stop listening: the idea of hearing his friend’s true thoughts was too seductive.

“I thought you approved of him, anyway,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“I do,” she said, and John heard what he thought was her planting a kiss on Sherlock’s – cheek? Forehead? “I just want you to be sure of him before you leap into something.”

Sherlock made a confused sound.

“It’s a little too late for that, now, mother, you know… I leapt quite some time ago.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, “How many months is it you’ve been together now?”

“Oh. I lose track.”

John was disappointed that he didn’t give a fuller answer; he was quite keen to know how long exactly he had been in this fictional relationship.

“Well. You finish off in here, Sherlock, I must go and help Mycroft put Holly to bed. I’ll send John up.”

John froze against the wall as the door opened and Aracelia sailed out. There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to go, so he could only shrink back into the shadows, cringing at the embarrassment of getting caught here so openly.

“A word, John,” she murmured firmly as she swept past him, not halting her progress or showing any other signs of recognition or surprise. With a growing feeling of trepidation, he followed her down several corridors and into an extravagantly dressed room which he concluded must be her bedroom. She whirled to face him, closing the door behind them.

“I wasn’t meaning to eavesdrop, Aracelia, I’m sorry, I-”

“Oh don’t be silly,” she said, cutting him off, “Anyone would have done the same. I certainly would. What I do need to know is whether you’re sure about becoming involved with my son.”

John stared at her blankly.

“Because if you aren’t sure, then I recommend you do not proceed. I’m not sure he would survive it.”

“Wait,” said John, slowly, “Are you saying that… are you saying that _you_ know we’re not…”

“Oh, of course I know you’re not a couple,” she said, waving a hand impatiently, “But you’re on the cusp of becoming one, now, and whilst that was the general plan, I need to be sure that you know _what you’re getting into_.”

“But… Mycroft said that you…” John began, feeling utterly bewildered, and not for the first time that evening.

“Oh, Mycroft, Mycroft. Sherlock thinks that Mycroft and I both believed him when he told us about you; Mycroft is of the opinion that only I believed him. Both of them are mistaken about me, as usual.”

“But how did you…?”

“Mycroft is not the only one who likes to keep an eye on Sherlock, darling. I do worry about the boy.”

John shook his head in disbelief.

“And you knew that Mycroft knew we weren’t a couple too?!” he asked, “Why didn’t you tell him you knew?”

“One thing you may not know about my boys, because they don’t always show it, is that they’d do almost anything to please me,” Aracelia explained, “I judge that Sherlock made up this particular fib for two main reasons. One, because it gave him recourse to fantasy regarding his feelings about you, which he could indulge in whenever he spoke to Mycroft or to me. And two, because he believed that it would make me proud. I didn’t tell him that I knew the truth, because I wanted him to feel that I was proud of him.”

John nodded, slowly.

“And you aren’t proud of him?” he asked.

“I am very proud of him indeed,” she said, looking almost insulted, “Though he’s normally convinced otherwise. Not long ago, I would never have believed he was capable of such attachment and care for another human being. But you came along, Dr Watson, and changed that.”

He blushed despite himself, looking down at the floor.

“As for why I didn’t tell Mycroft,” she went on, “It pleased him to know that I was proud of Sherlock, and to know that Sherlock was pleased of my pride… I did not see why I should take that from him.”

“And how did you know that Mycroft knew the truth?”

“Oh, I keep surveillance on him, too. He has no idea, of course, so I’d rather we kept this between ourselves.”

John sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. All of a sudden he wanted nothing to do with this ridiculous, duplicitous, suspicious family that spied on each other’s every move, constantly trying to outwit one another.

“So you were just going to carry on like this,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “This ridiculous….web of lies, this fiction, all the while knowing that none of you even believed in it.”

“Of course not,” Aracelia said, her voice stern, “I judged it far easier and better all round if the fiction were simply to become fact.”

John looked up at her slowly. She seemed a completely different person than she had downstairs; her eyes were steel grey and calculating, and she looked every inch the mother of Sherlock Holmes. He waited for her to continue, knowing that if she were anything like her son, she wouldn’t be able to help herself from explaining the apparent ‘genius’ of her actions.

“Whilst Mycroft and I both had access to the same surveillance footage of you and Sherlock, we drew slightly different conclusions from it, you see,” she went on, “Mycroft deduced – correctly of course – that you were in fact not together, a fact which I too was completely aware of.”

“But?”

“You’ve met my sons, John. You know as well as I do that they are more fluent in facts and figures than feelings. Luckily, I am… multilingual, one might say. I could see quite easily that you were completely smitten, without ever having met you in person. I concluded that quite the best way to have you realise that yourself would be to manufacture a situation that would force you into confronting your own feelings.”

He stared at her, unable to escape the idea that perhaps he had made the mistake of completely underestimating Aracelia Holmes. Sherlock, of course, was a brilliant detective and a stunning logician, but unfortunately lacked the capacity to understand or empathise with people’s feelings a lot of the time. He couldn’t quite begin to imagine what he would be like if he suddenly started understanding people’s feelings, too. Rather frightening, he supposed, and much like this.

“You see, John, our particular family gift does seem to manifest itself in slightly different ways. Sherlock is an observer of facts. Mycroft is a _manipulator_ of facts. And I… well, I am a manipulator of people,” she said simply.

John shook his head in bewilderment, not entirely sure how he was supposed to be feeling.

She sat down beside him and smiled kindly, looking like the woman he’d met downstairs once more, and took his hand.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling…” he searched around for the right word, “…manipulated.”

She laughed lightly.

“I’d prefer you to think of it as… match-making. Think of me as Cupid.”

He snorted.

“Yeah, I’ll do that. A really devious, sinister Cupid.”

Aracelia grinned a little twistedly.

“So… but…. Sherlock doesn’t know anything about any of this?” he asked, somewhat desperately. He wasn’t sure he could cope with it if Sherlock had been in on this ruse, too, no matter what his motivations.

“I am fairly sure that Sherlock has been nothing but truthful with you this evening. If you could not tell him about our little conversation…”

“Of course,” John said quickly.

“But I come back to my original point in dragging you in here – are you sure about this, John?”

“Is this some sort if ‘If you hurt him, I’ll kill you’ type conversation?” said John, raising an eyebrow. Aracelia said nothing in reply, but just stared back at him coolly, her eyes lidded.

“Ah,” he said, “Well, in that case. Yes, I’m sure. I think he’s actually the only thing I’m sure of, right now.”

She looked satisfied, then got to her feet in one fluid movement and threw open the door. John hesitated.

“Go on then, skedaddle,” she said, “I believe you have a Holmes to go to.”

He chuckled, and got to his feet, walking through the door and then turning back to her.

“I haven’t quite decided yet whether to thank you or yell at you for this,” he said, “But, erm. Thank you. For the jumper, at least.”

She smiled at him.

“You’re quite a singular man, John Watson.”

And with that, the door was closed in his face. Taking a few deep breaths to collect himself, John made his way back down the corridor the way they’d come.


	7. Chapter 7

He found Sherlock sprawled on their bed – a shock ran through his mind at the never-before used possessive pronoun – looking as debauched as it was possible for someone to do when still fully dressed.  He seemed to have discarded the jumper, at least; it was a pity, thought John.  He was also utterly engrossed in a book on bee-keeping.

“John,” he said, by way of greeting, as he entered the room.

“I didn't know you were interested in bees,” said John, his voice coming out far higher and tighter than he had intended, betraying the stress of his evening. 

“A hobby,” replied Sherlock casually, glancing up at his friend.  His nonchalence quickly faded as he caught a glimpse of John's expression, and he sat bolt upright in bed.

“What's happened?” he demanded. 

John ran through all the possible answers to this question, hoping to God that none of them showed on his face.  What was he supposed to say?  _Oh, hey, Sherlock, I've just discovered that no one in this building actually believes we're together, your entire family – including you, by the way – is completely stark raving mad, and yet I've still come in here with the express intention of sharing a bed with you tonight._ No; perhaps not.

“Answer me, John, what has happened?”

He shook his head, deciding that half the truth was better than none at all when it came to Sherlock.

“Nothing, really.  Your family are just rather... protective, that's all.  I'd not have guessed.  Your mother just treated me to the old 'If you hurt him, I'll kill you' routine.”

Sherlock looked completely thrown.

“If you hurt me she'll _what_?!” he repeated, incredulously.

“Kill me,” John said, “Not literally.  Well, possibly literally.  I wasn't sure.”

Sherlock looked oddly touched, switching just as suddenly to oddly furious.

“If she kills you, I will hurt her,” he swore vehemently.  John shook his head in disbelief.

“Lovely.  You have a very healthy family dynamic.”

Sherlock relaxed back onto the pillow and returned his attention to the book, shooting occasional glances at him over the top of the page.  He swung himself into a chair in the corner of the room and began tapping away on his phone, thinking that perhaps he could pinpoint from his blog the exact moment that his life became completely unrecognisable and ridiculous.  Ah yes, he thought, scrolling back through the entries.  Of course.  He had met a madman.

“Aren't you coming to bed?” Sherlock asked suddenly, sounding almost whiney.  John cleared his throat nervously.

“Erm. Yes. I'm working on that particular step, actually...”

There was silence for a moment, before Sherlock evidently decided that John couldn’t be left alone for more than a few seconds.

“What are you doing?”

“Can't you tell?” he asked, a trace of amusement in his voice.

“You're checking for new comments on your blog.  Why?”

“In case there are any?”

“Don't be facetious, John, you're far too good for that.”

He smirked, tapping out a reply to one of Harry's typically juvenile comments.  This was good, he thought, this was normal.  He could just pretend they were in Baker Street and he was on the internet and Sherlock was reading a book and everything was fine.

“But you could write in your new notebook, couldn't you?” suggested Sherlock, his voice purposefully light.  John swung around to face him, abandoning his pretence of normality.

“Ah, yes, my notebook.  I spoke to Mycroft about that.  He's of the opinion that the notebook is a symptom of you feeling... erm, possessive over me.”

Sherlock huffed and turned back to his book.

“Mycroft's deductive powers are considerably lacking in certain areas, and especially those concerning me,” he said.

“He thinks you want to keep all of my thoughts for yourself.  So no one else can read them,” John went on, hiding a smile, “He said you don't like to share.”

Sherlock remained silent, his eyes darting over the page in front of him.  John didn't think for a moment that he was actually reading it.

“Sherlock,” he said, softly.  His friend looked up at him.

“Did you know,” he began, “that there are almost 2000 known species of bee, in nine familial categories: that is, _Andrenidae, Apidae, Colletidae, Dasypodaidae, Halictidae, Magachilidae, Maganomiidae, Melittidae, Stenotritidae_.  Honeybees I find to be by far the most interesting, and are widely regarded as the most socially complex; whilst their actions do not go as far as the stunningly individual motives we encounter each day, nonetheless they do seem to have motivations, identifiable within their society; a society which in many ways has far more to be envied than our own, I suspect.  Honeybees are of the genus _Apis_ , with a current total of seven recognized species and 44 subspecies…”

Sherlock’s rant on bees died away mid-sentence, leaving the room humming slightly in its absence.  As often when in conversation with his friend, John found himself wondering whether he had in fact swallowed Wikipedia.  Although to be fair, the topic was normally varieties of poison or methods of strangulation, not winged insects.

“Well,” said John eventually, “You certainly seem to know everything there is to know about bees, at any rate.  But-”

Sherlock scoffed and slammed the book shut, casting it aside on the bed.

“That is the barest fraction of what there is to know about bees.  And the barest fraction of what I know about bees.  But one day, yes, I hope to know and understand them quite thoroughly.  I look forward to that day, but more, I look forward to the process of getting there.”

John frowned.

“But what does this have to do with-”

“I do not do anything by halves, John.”

Sherlock was sitting up straight on the bed, his gaze electric, hair in disarray around his face.  John swallowed, his breath hitching in his chest, unsure what exactly to say in reply to such a pronouncement but unable to look away from him.

“Thank you for going along with things this evening, by the way,” Sherlock said, lowering his eyes when John didn't answer straight away, “I know it can't have been easy.”

John waved a hand in almost-frantic dismissal, shaking his head.

“No no, it was fine, Sherlock, it was... it was all fine-”

“I'm not exactly the least difficult person to be around, even under normal circumstances.  I should have given you fair warning; I've found, after all, that keeping you informed of my actions almost invariably leads to better results on the field-”

“-well, yes, you could have told me beforehand-”

“-but honestly I wasn't sure that you'd want to go along with things if you knew in advance.”

John stared at him, then laughed.

“I didn't realise I _ever_ got a choice on whether or not to go along with things in advance.”

Sherlock gave him an almost wistful smile.

“You would have with this.  Should have with this.  I wanted to show you off, I think.”

“Understandably.  Who wouldn't want to show off this hunk of battle-scarred leftovers?!  I do a nice line in lumpy jumpers and pathetic limping.  I'm the perfect choice, anyone would be lucky to have me.  Sherlock, if you'd-”

“They would.”

“-given me a choice, I would have done what I always do, which is to say, I'd have done whatever you asked me to do.  What _ever_ you asked me to do, Sherlock.”

John stopped, slightly breathless, as they each processed the other's words, staring at each other wild-eyed.  There was a long pause,

“When you said that I'd saved your life in more than one way...” Sherlock began, his eyes on John and narrowed in curiosity.

“I meant it.  When you said that you don't do things by halves...?”

“I meant it.  So.  You... would do whatever I asked of you?”

John swallowed, feeling as though he were in the edge of some precipice, the abyss already tugging at his ankles and stretching out beneath him, dark and seductive.  He had only two options now, and he knew which of them he ought to take: step away from the edge, mind the gap, clear the area.  He took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

“Anything at all?”

“Yes.  God, Sherlock, yes.”

The abyss claimed him. 

Sherlock smiled.

“Then, John.  Come to bed,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

John stood up immediately, mesmerised by the silk of Sherlock's voice.  He covered the few steps to the bed without having realized he’d moved. 

“Of course.”

It occurred to him, in one obscured corner of his brain, that he was far too ready to take orders from this man.  It occurred to him, in another corner, that he probably quite liked that. 

He tugged Aracelia's ridiculous jumper over his head and began to undo the buttons on his shirt, his nerves feeling as though they were stretched over tenterhooks.  He risked a glance down at his hands.  They were, of course, quite steady.  He almost smiled.  That had been one of Mycroft's more impressive deductions. 

“I'm not going to stop posting on my blog,” he said firmly.  Sherlock's eyes were fixed intently on his own.

“If I might request that you at least don't blog upon this _particular_ case,” he replied.  John stifled a laugh, then frowned, his hands pausing in their activities.  Sherlock's eyes flew to his chest, noting the cessation in movement.

“Please continue getting undressed,” he said, his voice polite and level as though he were doing nothing but asking a client to recount the details of a crime.

“Yes, but, wait.  Sherlock, do you regard this – me – as a case?”

John had the sudden sinking feeling that all of this – the entire night, culminating in this frankly surreal moment in the spare guest bedroom of Mycroft Manor, was just another of Sherlock's experiments.  Like the eyeballs in the microwave.  Or the week of drinking nothing but Red Bull.  Or that sudden forray into baking.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, a little impatiently, “I regard this as _The_ Case.”

The capital letters were almost palpable.  His eyes were dark; darker than John had ever seen them, but tinged with a madness that John was more than familiar with – it was the same crazed intensity that he saw in them when they were right in the middle of chase.  The same crazed intensity that he knew full well was reflected in his own whenever he stood anywhere near the man.

“Sherlock-” he breathed.

“You appear to still be wearing clothes.  I believe this is a problem to which I can find a solution; please allow me to assist.  I have made ample study in the area which I believe has some practical application.”

Suddenly there were long, slender fingers running nimbly across John's torso and making swift work of the remainder of his shirt buttons.  John stared down at the pale white fingers, almost skeletal, which he had watched cradle the violin countless times, had watched cradle a corpse with identical care.  The same fingers that were now ghosting across his skin, adept yet reverent.

“No one talks like you,” he said, inanely, incapable of more coherent thought, “Not in real life.”

“Don't they?  How dull,” Sherlock drawled, loosely, “No one thinks like me either, I expect.”

John raised a hand and ran his fingers tentatively down Sherlock's cheekbone.  He had expected it to be cool, somehow, like marble; but it was soft and warm and incessantly human.  Sherlock closed his eyes a little and moved into his touch, looking for all the world like an overgrown cat.

“I expect not, no.  What are you thinking… right now?” he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow up at him and shrugged John's shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

“I was thinking that I do enjoy unwrapping presents at Christmas,” he said, his voice like silk and polished pebbles and cut glass.  John blinked at the unexpectedness of the line, then spluttered with laughter.  Sherlock took advantage of his distractedness by catching him behind the leg, throwing his weight off balance and tackling him suddenly onto the bed, where John found himself a moment later, breathless and bewildered.

“Where did you learn to-”

“You wouldn't believe me if I tried,” Sherlock said, his eyes flitting over John's face, not more than a few inches away.

“Try me.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curved up.

“Don't mind if I do,” he murmured, leaning down and capturing John's mouth with his own.  John gave a started yelp of surprise, which was quickly muffled into something much more appreciative as he tasted Sherlock's tongue in his mouth, mingling and exploring and claiming.  Kissing Sherlock felt like any other activity with the man, be it conversation or dashing full-flight through London: you were always a little behind step, trying desperately to keep up and comprehend not only what had just happened but what was about to happen, too.

Sherlock pulled back all too soon, looking thoughtful.

“Hm.  Much better than I remember,” he concluded after a moment.  John frowned.

“Much better than you – what?”

“Don't parrot things back at me, John.  Kissing, the act of kissing is much better than I remember.  Kissing.  It's been... a while.”

“Oh,” agreed John, attempting to pull Sherlock back down to him but without much luck; his eyes had taken on a far-away sheen, as though he was looking at something inside his head.  He frowned a little, curiously, as though he’d just made a discovery.

“The physical action is markedly improved by emotional attachment, it would seem.  Interesting.  Do you think that-”

“I think that you should kiss me again,” John said, firmly.  Sherlock blinked down at him, as though he'd only just remembered he was there.

“The proof of an experiment is in its repeatability?” he continued hopefully, figuring that science was probably the best way to get Sherlock to do anything.  Sherlock simply smirked at him.

“You know my methods, John.  Apply them.”

John glared at him for a moment, and then swiftly flipped them over so that Sherlock was pinned underneath him, his body seeming startlingly fragile and vulnerable beneath his.  He allowed himself a few moments of feeling rather pleased with himself about things, until he caught sight of Sherlock's eyes, which were triumphant.

“Good,” he said, “ _Very_ good.  Yes, you're on scintillating form tonight.”

John groaned, taking a second to note that every win against Sherlock was probably just a loss in disguise, before pulling Sherlock to him and kissing him fiercely.  Sherlock responded in kind, as single-minded as when engaged in any task; suddenly his hands seemed to be everywhere, darting from hip to neck to stomach with light, teasing touches that made John nearly growl in frustration.  He was all strange planes and angles, almost ethereal in his presence, as though he could blink and find him gone.  He made up his mind, then, not to blink, never to blink; in a moment of madness saw himself staying awake for days just to make sure of it.

“I'm not going anywhere,” murmured Sherlock, in his disconcerting way of answering his thoughts rather than his words (of which there had been none so far, other than the occasional wordless gasp).  He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, then found himself shakily pulling in another straight away as Sherlock sucked and nibbled his way down John's neck and into the hollow of his throat, his teeth just grazing his collarbone on the way.  John suddenly realised what Sherlock was about to find, and tensed suddenly, at exactly the same time as Sherlock paused in his ministrations.

“Oh,” he breathed softly, running a finger across the bunched-up mess of scar tissue on  John's shoulder, his eyes intent and sparkling with curiosity.  John chuckled bitterly.

“Yes, well.  I'm not quite perfect,” he muttered.  Sherlock fixed him with a brief, exasperated glare, before returning to his examination of the scar.  It was not long, really, though it was certainly ugly, stretching from the right of his collarbone and across the shoulder proper.

“No, you are imperfect, which is infinitely more compelling,” he said, tracing the path of the scar across his skin with his thumb, and then - in an act so intimate it made John's stomach clench and tighten - with his tongue.  It didn't exactly hurt, although the area was tender; it was more the idea of this reviled piece of flesh being worth any time, any effort, any passion whatsoever.  He found his hands in Sherlock's hair, bunching and pulling at his dark shock of curls as Sherlock's mouth ran around the contours of his shoulder.

Sherlock pulled back at the sound of John's whimpers, his gaze intent.

“Are you sure about this?” he muttered, though his tone was unwilling, as though the question was being dragged out of him.  John shrugged slightly, his breath coming thick and fast.

“It's just a scar, Sherlock, it doesn't really mean anything.  It’s not who I am.”

“No, I mean,” Sherlock waved a hand vaguely, “This.  All of this.  Are you sure?  I think I should check.”

John chuckled.

“It's a little late to ask, isn't it?” he said; but something in Sherlock's eyes compelled him to answer the question properly, “Yes, I'm sure.  Yes.”

Sherlock smiled broadly, in a childlike, lopsided way that made John's breath catch in his throat.  He rolled out from underneath John and then reached up and tugged his shirt over his head in one smooth movement, not bothering with the buttons, throwing it blindly away from the bed.  John found himself staring shamelessly at this strangely alien, long-limbed creature, all elbows and alabaster, which was crawling smoothly across the bed and straddling him as he lay across it.  For a moment he couldn’t recognise his friend in it, the low light of the bedroom rendering him uncanny -- until he settled on top of him and regarded John’s body with the intently searching gaze that was so familiar, although not normally directed at him.  Sherlock did not move.

“What’re you doing?” John asked, suspecting the answer before it was given.

“Studying you.”

“Right.  And can we expect a paper on the subject?”

Sherlock continued in his examinations, but his mouth quirked at the corners.

“Perhaps.  I am hoping that it will be somewhat of a longitudinal study.  There’s a lot of data.”

He leant down suddenly and took John’s nipple into his mouth, grinning as he responded by moaning enthusiastically and digging his nails into Sherlock’s shoulders.

“For instance, that in itself is very interesting, and certainly merits further research,” he went on, his voice vibrating throughout John’s chest, the casual tone only serving to heighten his arousal, “This will all need cataloguing, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Just a shame we didn’t get started earlier, really,” John gasped out, suddenly very aware of all the wasted moments spent sitting next to each other in Baker Street, in taxis, on train; as close as two people could get and yet not close enough, not until now.  Sherlock glanced up at him in mild reproach.

“That’s what I’ve been _trying_ to tell you for months,” he muttered, turning his attention to John’s belt and working away at the buckle with his fingers, “I don’t see how I could have been more obvious.”

“It might have helped if you had verbalised it,” he pointed out.

“It might have helped if you weren’t so stunningly obtuse,” Sherlock shot back, letting out a brief sound of victory as he successfully got the belt buckle open.  John snorted.

“Clearly then, it’s a blessing that your mother decided to intervene, as we’d never have managed it ourselves.”

John felt, rather than saw, that he'd said the wrong thing; Sherlock tensed above him, suddenly as hard and cold as though he were really made of marble.

“My mother?” he said dangerously, his voice so quiet that John could barely hear it. He pulled back and looked him in the eye, searchingly, clearly reading every micro-expression on his face, “What has my mother done this time?”

John said nothing, blinking up at him stupidly in a fug of panic and as-yet-unresolved arousal.  Sherlock seemed to read everything he needed to know into his lack of answer.

“I see,” he said coldly, swinging himself off John abruptly and perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed, his head turned away towards the wall.  John sat up, cursing himself beneath his breath for letting himself speak without thinking, and placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to attempt to regain his attention.  He ignored him, suddenly as distant and untouchable as the man that he had first met in a cold laboratory in St. Bart’s.

“Sherlock?”

“Yet again I am just a pawn in Mummy’s games,” Sherlock said bitterly, his fingers twitching slightly in his lap.  John stared at his friend’s profile, hardly daring to ask what other games 'Mummy' had played in the past.  He had the distinct feeling that within the Holmes family, games were more than just _Hide and Seek_ or _Monopoly_.  Especially when he factored in Sherlock’s constant insistence in referring to the nightmare with Moriarty as a 'game', no matter how inappropriate the circumstances had become.

“She was just trying to help,” he said helplessly, sure – however little he really knew of Aracelia – that it was true.

“So she never really thought-” said Sherlock, glancing up at John’s face and seeing the confirmation there before his sentence had even run its course, “No, of course she didn’t.  How silly of me.”  He looked away again, staring intently at the wall, his thoughts obviously elsewhere and far away from this tiny, inconsequential bedroom. 

“Beaten again,” he muttered furiously, and John had a sudden rush of understanding; Sherlock’s hatred of being bested, however infrequently it happened out in the real world, and the impotence he must feel at constantly being outwitted by members of his own family, outmanoevred by those closest to him.  And he had been outwitted here; even by John himself, in the end, who normally couldn’t hide anything from him at all.  He wondered whether he should have told him of Aracelia’s designs the moment he walked into the bedroom, and wondered why he hadn’t – after all, his loyalty to Sherlock normally trumped all other concerns.  He suspected that the answer was that he was rather more keen to see how things played out within this fiction, rather than destroying it and seeing how well he could exist outside of the fourth wall.

“Sherlock, she only did it because she could see how I felt about you, and how you felt about me, and she thought we needed that extra little…push,” he said, trying to explain.

Sherlock looked at him icily.

“The problem with Aracelia Holmes,” he explained, his voice clipped and taut with restrained emotion, “Is that she thinks everyone around her needs an extra little push.  And in many cases, that oh-so-tiny little push is what results in a sudden and unforseen toppling off a cliff.  And she still thinks herself and everyone else the better for it, no matter the trail of broken bodies left lying in her wake.”

John closed his eyes tiredly, knowing better than to force the subject.  He stretched out his hand and curled it around Sherlock’s, hoping he could convince him of his presence, if nothing else.  Sherlock stared down at his hand, then moved it calmly back onto John’s own lap.

“I won’t let us become one of her casualties,” he stated dispassionately, before standing and smiling at John in a slightly forced, polite manner, “It’s late.  You should get some sleep.”

“I’d been hoping for things other than sleep, actually,” John said, unable to keep the traces of longing out of his voice.  Sherlock ignored him, though, stripping perfunctorily to his boxers and sliding under the covers with his back to John.  John released a string of colourful expletives inside his own head, kicking himself for having ruined things before they’d even begun.

“Sherlock-” he tried once more, reaching out and stroking his friend’s shoulder gently.  There was no response.  He sighed, and turned to flick off the lamp next to the bed.  Shrouded in darkness, there was no sound in the room other than Sherlock’s quietly strained breathing.  John stared up at where the ceiling would be, if he could see it, marvelling at how quickly the path of the evening had altered.  With Sherlock it often felt like you were standing on shifting sands, just barely keeping your purchase on the ground.

“I’ll still be here, in the morning, Sherlock,” he said softly, not caring whether his words were heard and noted or not, “And then the day after, and the day after that.  And if your mother – or whoever – pushes us off a cliff, well, we’ve survived worse.”

There was no reply; he didn’t expect one.  He turned onto his side and faced away from Sherlock, just about able to feel the warmth of his body on his back, which did nothing for either his sense of frustration or his nagging arousal.  It was a long time that he lay there, in the darkness of the room, listening to the patterns in Sherlock’s breathing that told him that he, too, at least, was still awake.  A few times he half turned, thinking to try and speak to him again, or at least to crack some silly joke that would make light of the situation.  He did nothing, though, in the end, and eventually gave in to sleep, too tired of the thoughts racing around his head to stay awake.

It was a long time again before Sherlock’s breathing had levelled out and he finally followed him into unconsciousness, his arms curled around his knees and the grey tinge of dawn beginning to bleed across the night sky.


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke a few hours later with a mild yet irritating headache, no doubt thanks to the endless refills of sherry that had been on hand the night before.  He tried to stay as still as possible, in the hopes of staving off further pain; it was still early and there was no need to get up just yet, especially if it meant facing the Holmes family again.  Especially one of them in particular, who seemed to be fast becoming the bane of his existence.  Besides, the bed was warm and cosy, and there was a leg thrown comfortably over his body and a soft nose tucked into the space between his chin and his shoulder and -

John opened one eye cautiously. 

Sherlock had migrated across the bed in his sleep, sprawling widely and dramatically as though it didn’t occur to his unconscious brain not to just take all the space it wanted.  No, thought John - noting that not only was Sherlock lying half on top of him, but his fingers were gripped tightly and possessively around John’s hip - his unconscious brain didn’t just take all the _space_ that it wanted, it took _everything_ that it wanted.  He smiled sleepily, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady so as not to wake Sherlock yet.  Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet whilst it lasted, he thought.  And he was, really, so very, very comfortable... 

He snaked an arm around Sherlock, threading it into his dark curls, and fell immediately back asleep.

\-------

When he next awoke, Sherlock was gone.

He swore, sitting up achily in bed and rubbing at his bad shoulder, which had seized up during the night.  Judging from the temperature of the other side of the bed, Sherlock had been gone a while; the sun was high in the sky, slicing through a gap in the curtains, and he could hear the distinct sounds of movement downstairs.

He dragged himself out of bed and located a plush dressing gown on the back of the door, wrapping it around himself and shoving his phone into the pocket.  Two messages: one from Mike Stamford, wishing him a Merry Christmas, and one from Harry, asking if he’d snogged Sherlock under the mistletoe yet.  He sighed, remembering how well things had been going re: snogging last night until he’d managed to put his foot in it. 

There’d better be some good strong coffee available somewhere in the house.  He supposed it was too much to have hoped that Sherlock might have brought him a cup; he was probably off sulking in some corner of the house or plotting on how best to overthrow his mother.  Not that Sherlock ever made coffee anyway.

He found Mycroft sitting in the drawing room, exactly where he’d left him last night, but now wearing a black silk gown and sipping at a steaming mug of coffee, a newspaper on his lap.  He looked as calm and poised as ever, not one hair on his head dishevelled by the night’s sleep.  Holly was perched at his elbow, looking decidedly green around the gills.

“Morning, John,” Mycroft greeted him, without looking up.

“Morning.  No BlackBerry today, Holl?” he asked, pouring himself a drink from the cafetiere on the table.  She shook her head, her expression regretful.

“I tried.  Looking at the screen was making me feel sick.  Truly there is no God.”

He laughed, taking a sip of his coffee and feeling the caffeine reach to the very ends of his fingers.  He sighed in bliss.

“Far be it for me to ponder on the existence of a God, but the existence of coffee is surely a point in his favour.  Do you want some?”

Holly nodded, and he poured out another cup, making his way across the room and handing it to her.  She sipped at it gratefully.

“Sherlock around?” he asked Mycroft, dropping into the sofa he’d been sat on last night and picking up the Sports sections of the paper, which Mycroft had discarded.

“No,” said Mycroft, raising an eyebrow at him, “He left.  Did he not tell you?"

John swallowed uncertainly.

“Um, no.  No, he didn’t.  I must have been still asleep.  Did he say… where he was going?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“You know what my brother is like, John.  He just said he had a lead on a case and had to dash off.  Very rude; I don’t think he even _spoke_ to Mummy.”

John felt his blood run cold.  He knew that Sherlock had been annoyed, and upset, but he didn’t think he’d have just run off and left him behind this morning – especially since he’d woken earlier in the day to find his friend curled round him in his sleep, clinging on to him for dear life.

He pulled out his phone.

 **TO: G LESTRADE**  
IS SHERLOCK WITH YOU ON CASE? J (PS MERRY XMAS) 

The answer wasn’t long in forthcoming. 

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
IT’S BLOODY BOXING BLOODY DAY & I’M OFF DUTY. NO, I HAVEN’T SEEN HIM. GREG

He tried again.

 **TO: M ANDERSON, S DONOVAN**  
HAVE YOU SEEN SHERLOCK? J

Again, it didn’t take long before he received replies, succinct though they were:

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
BUGGER OFF.

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
OH GOD, WHAT’S THE FREAK DONE NOW?! SAL X

Finally, only able to think of one other place Sherlock would’ve gone, he tried Molly at the morgue, despite the fact that he’d tried to avoid talking to her much since the whole business with ‘Jim’.

 **TO: M HOOPER**  
IS SHERLOCK WITH YOU? IMPORTANT. J

The answer took a little longer this time, and he sipped his coffee in agitation until his phone bleeped at him.

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED  
** HAVEN’T SEEN HIM IN WEEKS :) WHOSE NUMBER IS THIS BTW? xx~*MOLLZ*~xx

He sighed, running his hand through his hair anxiously.  Clearly not on a case then; or if he was, it was one that he hadn’t told anyone about.  He couldn’t imagine that even Lestrade wouldn’t know something about it, if it was a real case, and since the pool Sherlock had been a lot more sensible about rushing into things headfirst on his own.  That only left the option that he’d guessed from the beginning was correct, anyway: Sherlock had been too uncomfortable to stay in the same house where his family were for any longer.  Where John was for any longer.  He scowled in frustration.

 **TO: SHERLOCK**  
YOU’RE AN IDIOT. J

He stood up from the sofa.

“I’d better get back to Baker Street,” he announced to the room in general, “In case Sherlock needs anything.  Any help.  With the case.”

Holly giggled at him from behind her coffee cup.

“Yes, you’d better go John, he might be in _danger._ You know, metaphorically speaking.”

He forced a smile at her allusion to their conversation the previous night.

“I’m more worried about what he might do to the kitchen without my supervision,” he said lightly, trying not to betray the unease that he felt in his voice.  Mycroft looked up at him coolly, and he winced, perfectly aware that Mycroft was able to see right through him and straight to the source of his agitation.

“Good luck, Doctor Watson,” he said pointedly, then turned back to his paper.  John had the distinct impression that he was referring to more than just the state of the kitchen.  He nodded, then turned and dashed back up the stairs to get dressed.

His phone bleeped as he was half-way back down them, swaddled up in his new Christmas jumper.

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
EXCELLENT DEDUCTION. SH

He was still talking to him, then.  That was something.  He tapped out a hurried reply -

 **TO: SHERLOCK**  
WHERE ARE YOU?

  
\- then called for a taxi, pacing up and down the hall as he tried to describe the exact whereabouts of Mycroft Manor to the cabbie on the other end of the phone.  By the time he’d hung up, his phone was flashing again to inform him of another message.

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
BUSY. DON’T DISTURB ME. SH

John swore in annoyance, and fired off another message.

 **TO: SHERLOCK**  
I KNOW THERE’S NO CASE, I SPOKE TO LESTRADE. J

He glanced out of the window, wondering whether the cab would pull into the drive or whether he ought to go out to meet it.  Perhaps he should go and check, just in case.  He reached out for the door knob.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” came a voice from behind him.  He turned, to see Aracelia Holmes watching him carefully, holding a carrier bag out to him.  He took it and glanced inside.  It was the notebook that Sherlock had given him last night.

“Thanks,” he said, avoiding her eyes nervously.

“You told him,” she stated.  He looked up at her, panicked.

“I didn’t mean to!” he blurted out, “He was just, and I, and then-”

“He’d have worked it out in the end,” she said calmly, shrugging a little regretfully, “though it’s a shame that it had to be last night.  I’d rather hoped we could part on good terms.  Still; it’s not a Holmes family Christmas without a bit of drama.”

John smiled against his will, then suddenly thought of something.

“Aracalia, you have him under surveillance, don’t you?  Do you know where-”

“I know where he is.”

He regarded her warily.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“I think it’s best that you give him a bit more time, John,” she said, reaching up and touching his shoulder, “He has some things to sort out.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and jabbed at it.

 **NO NEW MESSAGES**

There was the sound of a car-horn outside.  His taxi.

“That’s my taxi.”

“Of course.  Well, John,” she said, enveloping him in a warm hug, “Don’t worry too much.  It was wonderful to finally meet you.”

“Yes.  Thanks.  It was… interesting, to meet you,” he replied honestly, and Aracelia gave what had to be described as a ‘titter’ before opening the door for him. 

He stepped outside, turning to wave to her once more before making his way down the path toward where the cab was waiting for him.  It was a frosty morning, almost as cold as the previous night, and he was glad of the thickness of his woolly jumper.  He wondered whether Sherlock would be annoyed that he was wearing it, and decided he’d rather face his annoyance than freeze to death.  He tucked himself into the taxi, which seemed weirdly empty without Sherlock’s form looming on the other seat.

“221b Baker Street,” he recited automatically, not able to think of anywhere else Sherlock might be.  He certainly wasn’t going to traipse round the streets of London looking for him.

 **NO NEW MESSAGES**

**TO: SHERLOCK**  
STOP SULKING. J

The journey passed in a haze of places and street signs: places he knew, places he didn’t, and the occasional jolt when he recognised somewhere from one of his and Sherlock’s excursions, running flat-out through London with the wind at their backs and the Police at their heels.  He felt his pulse rate ratchet up just at the thought of it, the sultry tug of danger at the back of his mind.  He thought back to what he’d overheard of Sherlock’s conversation with his mother.  That was part of it, he knew; part of his obsession with his flatmate.

And yet it wasn’t all of it, he pondered, as the taxi pulled up outside the black front door of 221b.  He gazed up at it through the window.

Home.

He paid the driver, and let himself in through the front door.

“Sherlock!” he called, as he made his way up the seventeen steps to their living room, not particularly expecting the answer that he didn’t get, “Are you here?”

He wasn’t, though he clearly had been.  John stared round the room, taking in all the subtle ways in which the carnage of their living quarters differed from the last time he’d seen it.  The books piled up by the sofa were slightly different ones.  There were pieces of paper covered in scrawl on the table, rather than the collection of test tubes that had been there before.  The book on the universe that he’d bought for Sherlock was on the coffee table with – he scowled – a round cup mark on it where a drink had obviously been placed.

 _You know my methods, John.  Apply them._

He wandered around the flat, trying to ascertain some clue as to where Sherlock had gone.  The books by the sofa gave him no particular clue: one was on consciousness and anomalous psychology, one on Sino-Tibetan language classifications and one on children’s string-games - Cats Cradle and so forth.  The fourth was the book on bees that Sherlock had been so engrossed in the night before.  He shrugged, and went instead to look at the papers on the kitchen table; a couple of sets of unlabelled blueprints (though they looked like they might be museums, or libraries) and a few pages of scrawl in a language or code that he couldn’t begin to decipher.

He noticed that his laptop was on the desk in the living room, and that the light was blinking: Sherlock had been on his computer, then.  Again.  He’d really thought he wouldn’t be able to guess his latest password, but apparently he was wrong.  He dashed over to it, wondering whether he’d be able to work anything out from the internet history – assuming Sherlock hadn’t wiped it.

It turned out he had, but he hadn’t bothered to close the browser page he’d been on.  John raised his eyebrows.  It was just a page from a Facebook photo album; a picture from Harry’s birthday when she’d managed to drag John down to the bar to celebrate and he in turn had dragged Sherlock along too.  He sat down and looked at it.  They were barely even in the picture; it was mostly just lots of Harry’s friends in the foreground, cackling and holding cocktails up to the camera.  He and Sherlock were in the background, studiously ignoring everyone around them; Sherlock was sketching something out on a napkin (it had been a flow diagram of all the possible ways a night out with 15 drunk and handsy girls could go, with a map of all the available exit points in the bar on the other side), and John was watching over his shoulder, a pint in one hand and an exasperated smile on his face.  It was nothing; just a brief snapshot that could have been any other minute of their lives, but there was an obvious intimacy to it that made John’s breath catch.  Clicking through to his own profile, he suddenly realised something. 

It was the only picture there was of them together.

He blinked.  It seemed ridiculous, to have spent almost every waking moment of his life for the last – God, was it almost a year now? It was the end of January that Mike had introduced them – with the man, and yet not to have any photographs.  But honestly, neither of them were the type to take them, and the only other people they really saw when they were together were the Scotland Yard hands, the occasional doctor at Bart’s and Mrs Hudson.  He made a mental note to get in touch with Aracelia and ask for copies of the photos she’d taken last night, of them all posing tipsily in her ridiculous jumpers.

There were no other clues on the computer as to where Sherlock had gone, and for the life of him, he couldn’t just deduce it from the flat.  He glanced briefly into Sherlock’s bedroom, but decided it wasn’t worth the attempt: he’d probably end up bitten or poisoned or infected by a flesh-eating mould.

The only thing left to do was turn on the telly, thought John, and wait it out.  Aracelia was probably right; Sherlock just needed more time, and he’d be home when he was ready.  In the meantime he would make himself a cup of tea.  He grabbed the remote and waved it vaguely at the TV as he wandered into the kitchen, trying to find something that wasn’t a sickly sweet Boxing Day film.  He flicked past _The Sound of Music_ and _It’s a Wonderful Life_ and ended up with _Bugsy Malone_ , which would have to do, he thought, switching on the kettle.

He opened the fridge.  The fridge was full of milk.  He blinked at it.

He wasn’t sure whether this was more or less surprising than the time that there’d been a human head in there.  Apparently, in the time that Sherlock had been home that morning, he’d stocked up on a fridge-full of milk – more milk than they could ever drink, really.  He didn’t even know where he’d managed to source it from on Boxing Day.

 **NO NEW MESSAGES**

 **TO: SHERLOCK**  
I SEE YOU BOUGHT MILK. J

He stared back into the fridge again.  There was every type of milk, too, he realised, feeling bewildered.  He pulled out some semi-skimmed, sniffed it suspiciously – you never knew with Sherlock – and finished making his cup of tea, which he sipped gratefully.

Then he threw himself down into his armchair to wait.


	9. Chapter 9

Waiting took a long time.  And it was boring.  John almost debated joining Sherlock’s bullet-holes in the poor wall with a few of his own.

Instead, because he was a normal upstanding citizen and not a madman sociopath, he sat through the remainder of _Bugsy Malone,_ followed by _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ and a couple of old _Wallace and Gromit_ episodes.  It felt odd, though, watching family entertainment with no one else there, so he phoned Harry (who was back together with Clara again, so spending the holiday with her) and they spent a while reminiscing about Christmasses from their childhood.  He hung up on her when she tried to get back onto the subject of Sherlock; he was worried that if he started to talk about his flatmate, he wouldn’t stop, and then the whole ridiculous story would come out.

 **NO NEW MESSAGES  
**

He decided to drink some beer as the day wore on to late afternoon, but there weren’t any left in the kitchen and he couldn’t imagine where would be open today.  He could text Sherlock to ask him where he’d got the milk, he supposed, but he probably wouldn’t reply.  Stupid bloody Christmas, he thought, glaring at the miniature plastic tree he’d put up in the corner of the room.  Stupid bloody tree.

  _“What is its purpose?”  
“It doesn’t have a purpose, Sherlock.  It’s a tree.”  
“That is not a tree.  Saying that that awful, gaudy thing is a tree, John, is like saying a Tussaudian waxwork is a person.  That is not a tree.”_

 __He’d refused to help decorate it, preferring to watch John painstakingly cover it in baubles and tinsel, watching from the sofa with his fingers steepled together.  When John had finished, he’d regarded it critically, as though there were something missing.

 _“Shouldn’t there be something on the top of it?”  
“What, like a fairy, or a star or something? I don’t have anything."  
“Hm.  I have something.”  
“I thought you weren’t helping?”  
“I wasn’t. Now I am.”  
“Well what do you - oh, Sherlock, no, not the skull.  Not the _skull _, what are you doing-”_  
 _“I am helping.”  
_

John sighed, massaging his temples.  Just how long was Sherlock going to sulk about this?!  He knew he was upset about his mother going behind his back and interfering, but honestly, he didn’t see why _he_ deserved to take the brunt of his anger.  It wasn’t as though he’d been _in on it,_ for chrissakes - he’d only even really found out about half an hour before Sherlock had!  And if Sherlock had rethought the whole thing, and didn’t want them to be involved, then that was alright – though his chest contracted suddenly at the idea – then things would just go back to normal.  But they couldn’t go back to normal if Sherlock wasn’t even _here_ , could they, he thought, kicking at the coffee table moodily.

He sat there for quite some time, his brain rushing with thoughts as the sun completed its journey and sank back beneath the horizon.  He wondered whether Sherlock would even be back tonight, and his stomach sank.  A sudden noise from the hall downstairs roused him from his thoughts and he leapt to his feet.

“Sherlock?” he called, moving towards the stairs to intercept.

“Yoo hoo, only me!”

John let all of his breath out in one.  Mrs Hudson.  He collapsed back into the chair, picking up the remote again and flicking listlessly between channels.  His landlady’s feet were on the stairs, and then she bustled in through the door.

“I’ve brought you some of my home-made Christmas pudding, dear,” she said, pottering into the kitchen with a huge platter in her arms, “I’ll just put it in the fri—oh, what _has_ he done now?!”

John hid a smile behind his hand as Mrs Hudson stared into the fridge in silence.  She turned to him, a look of alarm on her face.

“Do you need any milk, Mrs Hudson?” he asked, innocently.  She gave a long-suffering sigh and pulled a few cartons out of the fridge.

“Well, I’ve almost run out anyway.  I’ll just take a couple, to make room for the pudding.  But _honestly,_ John.  Where is he?”

The smile dropped off John’s face and he changed the channel again.  _Mr Bean. Top Gear Special. Big Fat Quiz of the Year,_ from two year’s ago.

 __“I was hoping you might have an idea,” he said, “I haven’t seen him in hours.”

Mrs Hudson looked at him sympathetically and came and perched on the chair beside him, patting his hand.

“Oh, dear.  Have you two had another domestic?”

John blinked at her, about to contradict her out of habit, then wondered exactly what there was to contradict anymore and hung his head.

“Yes. A bit.”

“Well. It never did run smooth,” she said, stoically, and stood up, “I’ll make us a cup of tea, shall I?”

He smiled at her in assent as she made her way into the kitchen, and began thumbing his way through Sherlock’s book on bee-keeping as though it contained the answer to his problems.  It contained plenty of answers, he supposed, but mostly they were to questions about bees.

His phone beeped suddenly and he grabbed it quickly off the table, feeling a little embarrassed at his haste and glad no one was here to see him.

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE, OXFORD CIRCUS. SH

He flung himself off the sofa, casting around for his shoes and jacket.

”Mrs Hudson, I’m going out!” he yelled toward the kitchen.  She appeared round the corner looking a little put-out, two steaming cups of tea in her hands.

“Ah,” he said, “Yes, sorry about that, but I think Sherlock might be in trouble.”

He flung his jacket on, deciding it was better equipped for danger than a woolly jumper, and knotted one of Sherlock’s scarves around his neck.  Most of his brain was engaged in gearing up for adventure, flashing through possible scenarios, but another part altogether went off on an ill-advised ramble about how the scarf smelt of Sherlock and what really did Sherlock smell like anyway now that he came to think about it and he smelt like strong coffee and the stain of chemicals and the air at night and that was nice, wasn’t it, yes he liked that very much; luckily the more sensible part of his brain took him upstairs to grab his gun from the desk drawer.

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
TELL MRS HUDSON NOT TO WAIT UP. SH

“Don’t wait up, Mrs Hudson!” he called, galloping past her on his way back down the two flights of stairs.  She tutted audibly.

“You’re getting just as bad as him, John Watson, it’s not civilised!  Just make sure you both come back in one piece, I don’t want blood on my carpet again.”

“Will do, Mrs Hudson!”

He dashed out onto the pavement, footfalls ringing on the frosty pavement and his heart thudding in his ears.  He felt properly awake for the first time all day, his surroundings seeming to shift into focus around him.  He put out his arm to call for a taxi, his breath turning to steam in the air in front of him.

He wasn’t quite as masterful as Sherlock when it came to commandeering cabs, but managed to flag down the third one that passed and clamber into it, directing the driver toward Oxford Circus.

 **TO: SHERLOCK**  
ON MY WAY. ARE YOU OK? J

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
BE QUICK. SH

John felt anxiety thrum through him and wondered for a moment about phoning Lestrade, but decided Sherlock would have mentioned it if he thought that best.  He wondered what idiocy his flatmate had managed to fling himself into this time - where other people, under stress, might hit the bottle, Sherlock preferred instead to run into the path of the nearest scrap of danger he could find, and the more complicated the better.  It was just a coping mechanism, John knew, much like his own endless cups of tea had been that afternoon.

It wasn’t a long drive, and to be honest he could have walked it easily, but he got the impression that time was of the essence and he couldn’t afford to waste a minute of it.  The taxi pulled up on Regent Street and John vaulted out of the seat, wondering where to go next.  He paused on the pavement, but couldn’t hear any of the normal racket that followed Sherlock around: there were no gunshots, no sirens and no screams.

 **TO: SHERLOCK  
** ON REGENT ST – WHERE ARE YOU?? J

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED**  
W1S 2QB. HURRY. SH

He stabbed the postcode into his phone as quickly as he could, then followed his GPS as he ran along the road and crossed over to turn right, not sure whether the quiet of the night was reassuring or disconcerting.  Visions ran through his mind unbidden of all the possible worst-case scenarios, his heart beating in his throat: Sherlock waylaid by assailants, tied up to a chair somewhere, beaten up in an alleyway.




“John.”

He came to an abrupt stop, trying to catch his breath.  Sherlock was leaning casually against a wall, looking perfectly calm, his coat pulled around him against the cold.  John sagged in relief.

“Sherlock! What’s going on? I have my gun-”

“You won’t need it.”

John stared at him, trying to read any information about what was happening from his face, but his expression was as blank and controlled as usual.

“Right.  Ok, well, good. So. What’s the case?” he asked.

“The case?”

“Yes, Sherlock, the case, the reason you brought me here? You told me to hurry, I thought you were in danger.”

Sherlock’s expression cleared suddenly.

“Oh!  No. No danger. I was just getting chilly waiting for you.”

John stared at him, and then growled in exasperation, stalking up and down the pavement in front of him.  Making him _worry_ like that, of all the self-important, smug, arrogant-

“So I just nearly killed myself running over here, and it turns you’re not even in bloody _danger,_ you werejust _feeling a bit nippy-”_ _  
_

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, John, you came most of the way in a cab, look at your shoes.  Besides, it wasn’t just because I was ‘feeling a bit nippy’.”

John huffed and came to a stop in front of him, glaring up at his friend.

“What, then? What’s the case? Do we _have_ a case?”

Sherlock beamed unexpectedly, his eyes glittering blackly in the darkness.

“We have a _reservation,_ John.”

John blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Sherlock’s brow creased in consternation, and he deflated slightly, looking at John uncertainly.  He gestured behind his back and across the road.

“A reservation.  Well. You said you’d been hankering for Thai food lately.  I thought-”

John spun round to see an ornate Thai restaurant on the other side of the road, which he hadn’t noticed during his sprint down the street.

“No, I did - I have, I – this is a date?!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“Obviously.”

“So there’s no case.  You dragged me over here for a _date_?”

Sherlock frowned, looking a little discomfited.

“Is it bad? Have I behaved incorrectly.”

John stared at him for a moment, wondering if he was joking, and then shook his head.

“No, I mean - no, actually this is… brilliant,” he said, and then grinned broadly in relief, “Brilliant, Sherlock.  It’s just – you’d been ignoring me all day, so I thought...”

Sherlock’s eyebrows flew up.

“I was busy, John.  You mustn’t get jealous of my work, I don’t mind it when you go off and do your bit of doctoring at the surgery, even though it would be more helpful by far for me to have you around the house all day.  Shall we go in, then?” he said, striding towards the door and removing his gloves as he walked.  John followed, trying to process this latest turn in events; he was back to that feeling of emotional whiplash, again.

“But it’s Boxing Day.  Are they even open?” he asked.  The lights were on, but he couldn’t see any other patrons inside.

“They are for me,” Sherlock said, rapping on the door and winking at John.  He nodded in comprehension.

“You’re calling in a favour,” he said, knowing that Sherlock could probably get free service in half of London if he wanted it.  There was movement inside the restaurant.

“But I thought you didn’t know anyone who owned a Thai restaurant?”

“I told you,” said Sherlock, vaguely, waving a hand, “I’ve been busy.”

“Wh-”

The door was flung open, and a short balding man stepped out and threw his arms around Sherlock.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock looked a little taken aback by the sudden embrace, and cast an apologetic glance toward John.

“Welcome back to _Patara,_ my friend! I’m so glad you’ve returned!”

“Mr Chén,” he said, “This is my partner, Dr Watson, that I was telling you about; we’ve come to trespass upon your hospitality tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Of course, we have been expecting you!” he said, waving them both in through the door, “I have the kitchen quite prepared.  I can’t thank you enough for your help today, we’re all very grateful-”

The man nudged John in the ribs.

“Has Mr Holmes told you what he-”

“The table by the window, I think, Mr Chén,” Sherlock said, interrupting smoothly.

“Of course,” Mr Chén said, and took their coats from them to hang up before leading them across the room,  “Lin is very pleased that you came back, Mr Holmes, she wanted to thank you personally.”

John noticed a group of waitresses peering out of the back room at them, one of whom was making her way towards them.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, thumbing expertly through the wine list.  Mr Chén disappeared off into the back room, leaving them with the waitress, who approached and had a brief conversation with Sherlock in – well, what sounded like Mandarin, thought John, his eyes widening as Sherlock replied in the same.  His mind shot back suddenly to the book on Sino-Tibetan languages that he had found lying in the living room.

“I took the liberty of ordering the wine, I hope you don’t mind,” Sherlock said, breaking into his thoughts.  John blinked; the girl was heading back into the kitchens.  He gaped across at his friend.

“Sherlock, did you learn-”

“Only conversational.  Is red ok?  You seem to prefer white in the Summer months, but you switched to red in September.”

John nodded as though it was perfectly normal for someone to catalogue which alcoholic beverages you drank and when.

“Red’s fine, yes, I think it’s more…warming…” he said vaguely, his mind fixing together everything he’d just learnt.  Apparently Sherlock had stormed out this morning, leaving him alone in a bed on his brother’s estate, and had then spent the day finding – and solving – a case for one Mr Chén, presumably owing to the simple fact that he was the proprietor of a Thai restaurant.  He had also possibly learnt a new language during the same time period.

Well.  It was no wonder Aracelia had refused to tell him where he was.

The waitress came back and poured their wine.

“You seem a little thrown,” Sherlock said, watching John over the top of his glass.

 “It’s just...all quite unexpected, that’s all.  You… spent the day on a case just so you could take me out to a Thai restaurant? That’s… well.  That’s amazing.”

 “I thought I made my intentions quite clear last night?” 

“Erm,” he said, “You did.  But then you didn’t follow through on any of them, and then you ignored me all night - apart from your unconscious intrusion into my personal space - and then you disappeared, and then you ignored me all day, and with one thing and another I rather assumed whatever intentions you’d had had gone right out the window.  Along with you - or did you use the door?”

“The door, John, and you should never theorise without all the facts.  What are you having? I hear the abalone with ginger is excellent.”

John stared down at his menu.

“What’s abalone?”

“A type of sea snail. Family _Haliotidae,_ genus _Haliotis._ The larvae are lecithotrophic, they feed off a yolk sac,” Sherlock said, examining his own menu.  John wrinkled up his nose.

“Perhaps not,” he muttered, deciding that he’d probably stick to the lamb in red coconut curry, “I think I’ll stick to the lamb in red coconut curry.”

“Yes, I thought you might.  The nua tom kati for me, I think-”

“You’re actually eating?” said John, surprised, “Blimey, that’s the second day in a row, that must be some kind of record!”

Sherlock made eye-contact with one of the waitresses – a different one, this time, not Lin – who brought over a basket of prawn crackers to start, and started jotting down their food order at Sherlock’s instruction.  John watched him carefully, still not quite able to wrap his head around what was happening.  It wasn’t as though they didn’t usually spend a lot of time in restaurants, so in some ways this felt completely familiar - but in other ways, it was completely alien.  They were normally on a case, he was the only one that was ever eating and Sherlock was normally staring distractedly over his shoulder.  And, he supposed, they hadn’t normally spent the evening before almost-but-not-quite having sex.  Not to mention the sudden turnaround in Sherlock’s mood; last night, he’d seemed so angry about everything.  Angry with his mother, angry with his brother, angry with himself, angry with John.  He couldn’t see a sign of that now.

He looked at him closer.  Perhaps, he thought, he could see a sign of it after all; there was a slight tension in the way that Sherlock was holding himself, as though he was vibrating with hidden energy.  On the other hand, he was often like that straight after a case, until the adrenaline wore off and he went into a terrible slump for the rest of the week.

“You’re going to be intolerable for days,” he told Sherlock, who was nibbling on the edge of a prawn cracker.  Sherlock put on a mock-wounded expression.

“Is that your idea of a chat-up line, John?” he asked, “It’s no wonder none of your little girlfriends lasted very long.  Although I rather suspect it wasn’t the only reason.”

John laughed.

“Go on, then, genius.  What was the reason?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and was about to reply when the waitress returned with a candle.  He smiled, thanking her in Mandarin.

“Did you ask for that?!” John said, incredulously.

“I’m told that it’s more romantic.  Actually, I was hoping you could help me with your opinion on something I’ve been wondering about.”

“Right,” he said, shovelling a couple of prawn crackers into his mouth, “Ok, go on then.”

“How many candles are required for _optimum_ romance?”

John stared at him.  Sometimes having a conversation with Sherlock was like trying to explain the human race to a complete outsider.  Maybe he actually was an alien, he thought.  It would certainly explain the bone structure.

“I don’t think that there’s actually a… set number.”

Sherlock huffed in exasperation, glaring at the candle as though it had committed a personal slight against him.  Not for the first time, John started to wonder whether getting involved romantically with Sherlock Holmes might not be the worst idea he’d ever had; although, he supposed, it wasn’t so much an idea he had had himself than one that had been foisted upon him.

As if exactly on cue, his phone bleeped in his pocket, and he pulled it out to look at it.

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED – UNKNOWN SENDER**  
DARLING! I TOLD YOU HE JUST NEEDED A LITTLE MORE TIME TO SORT THINGS OUT. DINNER LOOKS LOVELY. AH x

John shifted in his seat, glancing around the room as though he’d be able to spot wherever Aracelia’s surveillance cameras were.  He couldn’t see a thing, of course.  He wondered whether Mycroft was watching too, and felt distinctly uncomfortable at the thought.

 **TO: UNKNOWN SENDER**  
ARE YOU GOING TO WATCH US ALL NIGHT?? J (PS PLEASE SEND COPIES OF PHOTOS FROM LAST NIGHT TO 221B)

 **MESSAGE RECEIVED – UNKNOWN SENDER**  
NO, JUST CHECKING IN ON YOU. MH OUT OF THE COUNTRY. GOING TO BED NOW – HE’S ALL YOURS ;) AH x

“Who’s that?” Sherlock demanded, watching John carefully.  John shook his head.

“Nothing. No one. Just work.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and opened his mouth again to say something – but then the waitress returned with their food, setting it down on the table in front of them, and he closed it abruptly.  It smelt delicious, thought John, accustomed to an endless rota of Indian and Italian and Chinese takeaway - he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had Thai food.  He inhaled a deep breath over it and then tucked in straight away, using his chopsticks to skewer bits of meat.  He’d never been very good with chopsticks.  Sherlock, obviously, was irritatingly perfect.

They ate in silence for a while, working their way through their food, which tasted as fantastic as it smelt.  John dragged his eyes away from Sherlock in favour of his curry, but noticed that he kept shooting him glances as they ate; in the end he looked up at the same time on purpose, and caught Sherlock with an expression on his face that was half affectionate and half irritated.

“I’ve told you before, you need to keep the bottom chopstick still whilst pivoting the top – it’s quite simple,” Sherlock moaned, manoeuvring rice into his mouth.  John glared at him, and stubbornly stabbed at a piece of red pepper.

“And what makes you think I’ll be intolerable for days?”

John frowned at the sudden return to his earlier comment.  Perhaps conversation with Sherlock wasn’t like speaking to an alien, he thought; more like trying to piece together the plot of a novel when all the pages were in the wrong order.

“You always are when you’re bored after a case.  And the telly’s even worse over the Christmas period, so you’ll have nothing to distract you.  I should know, I spent the entire day staring at it,” he grumbled.

“Well, I’ll just have to find something else to do then, won’t I,” said Sherlock, his lips quirking up at the corners.

“Like what?!”




“The implication is sex, John. I was given to understand that sexual recreation was supposed to be referred to in broadly euphemistic terms within a dating scenario, both parties giving no clear verbal expression of their desire for sexual conduct until it is actually about to take place, and sometimes not even then. Is this incorrect?”

John’s eyebrows shot up.  He had a horrible feeling that this was Sherlock’s version of flirting.

“Right,” he said, swallowing, “Good.  So-”

“Apparently both parties are supposed to draw these conclusions for themselves using other distinct markers: verbal allusion, body language, sensory titillation,” Sherlock went on, “Touch.”

He reached out and grazed his thumb over the back of John’s hand.  John felt shivers go down his back, heavy heat pooling at the bottom of his spine.  Sherlock smiled, triumphantly.

“Excellent, your pupils have dilated. You do make quite a satisfactory subject, John, even if you are euphemistically lacking.”

John shook his head helplessly, opening his mouth wordlessly as he stared across the table at Sherlock.  He was wearing a tie, he noticed, as though he’d actually _dressed up._ It almost looked like he’d tried to flatten down his unruly hair, too.

“What.”

“Well, it’s just-” he said, not sure exactly how to broach the subject, “Last night.  You said you didn’t want to be… a pawn?  I’m a little confused at how we got from there to here.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes darkening a little.

“Ah yes. How is Mummy, John? I assume it was her texting you a moment ago?”

John winced and nodded, not sure why he’d even bothered trying to hide it.  Surely he should have learnt better by now, given how that had turned out last night.

“Well, you’re quite right. And you can tell her I refuse to be a pawn in her ridiculous games,” Sherlock said, glaring over the table.

“So what-”

“If I’m doing this,” continued Sherlock, flipping John’s hand over and sliding his fingers through his in one sudden movement, “Which, by the way, I fully intend to – then I’m doing it _my_ way, and not my mother’s.”

John’s eyes widened, suddenly understanding the purpose behind all of this – Sherlock’s dash out of the house away from his mother this morning, the day spent solving problems on behalf of Mr Chén and Lin, this bizarre date in an entirely empty restaurant on Boxing Day.

“I am perfectly capable of doing things without my mother’s help,” Sherlock muttered fiercely, scowling down at their fingers laced together, “I can do it on my own.”

John smiled, then, at this stubborn little boy trying to understand how to relate to people for the first time ever, and put his other hand on top of Sherlock’s too.

“I think the point is, with relationships, that you don’t have to,” he said.  Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly, and then creasing a little at the corners a moment later.

“You can help,” he agreed, giving John a shy smile that made his stomach flip over.  He stared at the alarming man on the other side of the table - the most bizarre and exasperating and incredible man that he’d ever met - and wondered what on earth he was getting himself into.

“So. Does that mean that we’re-”

“I think so-“

“Right.”

Sherlock watched him carefully, as though he was uncertain of what to do next.  John downed the last of his glass of wine, deciding he wouldn’t give him any clues.  Sherlock gestured at John’s almost-empty plate.

“Have you finished-”

“Yes.“

“I should just say goodbye to Mr Chén, and then…”

Sherlock trailed off again, looking at John helplessly.

“John, I’m not sure that I’m going to be very good at all of this,” he mumbled.  John almost smiled at the sight of the most intelligent person he’d ever met looking utterly anxious and bewildered.

“It’s a good job you’re a fast learner, then,” he said, “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

He wasn’t exactly sure what that would be, though, if he was entirely honest.  What were they going to do, stroll around crime scenes holding hands?  Make out in the morgue?  Sherlock had never been capable of paying attention to anything else when they were on a case, and he couldn’t imagine that he was going to change once they were together.  On the other hand, he thought, he wasn’t sure that he particularly wanted him to.

“So what do we do now?” Sherlock demanded, looking unsettled.

“We go home,” said John, standing up from his seat, “We go back to Baker Street. Just like normal.”

“And then?” 

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find something to do.”

“Like what?”

John smirked at his friend over the table.

“The implication was sex, Sherlock,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Right,” said Sherlock, swallowing heavily, “Good. That’s good.”

And John turned and strode toward the door of the restaurant, leaving Sherlock to follow him for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
